Black: The age that only gets darker
by Flagabovetheflames
Summary: In September 1938, Enjolras a committed Socialist, returns home to Paris from the lost Spanish Civil War a shadow of his former self. Éponine scratches out a living and dreams of a better life as she attempts to escape her past and family. Facing personal truth is painful. Politics is of extremes. A second catastrophic war is on the horizon. The night is closing in. E/É AU.
1. A Return of Sorts

**A/N (Essay): So hey folks. I just had this idea, there have been a lot of other AU fics set in other eras. Having studied 20th century France in some detail I decided to take a look at another particularly tense time, not so unlike the 1830s yet far more international in scope.**

**I've tried to keep as in character as I possibly can and as true to Hugo's original ideas. In my head Enjolras is nobody specific, I just imagine him as being quite pale with long blonde hair although I'm not basing him off of one single performer or rendition, more just my own interpretation. Eponine in my head is however pretty much Samantha Barks, no getting around that one so it'll be her rendition Eponine is based on.**

**Also of course, due to the fact this story is set 100 years later than Les Mis, the characters are going to reflect the early 20th century, hence why Enjolras is influenced by 20th century ideals and therefore a Socialist/Communist (such ideologies were big in Pre-WW2 France) and not just a Revolutionary Republican. Also Eponine's experiences are a little different from original story since there had been some improvement in the life the poor could expect (it was still rough by our standards but not as bad as in the 1830s), she's also a fair bit more educated (since compulsory state education was introduced in France in the 1880s) although she's still had a pretty rough time of it. So obviously there will be some differences and to ignore these would just be silly. **

**This is an E/E fic although it won't be particularly fluffy. There will be some M/C too. Musical/Film based by en-large, I've not read all of the brick yet.**

**Finally there are a few more things I should say.**

**1. I don't own Les Miserables, since I'm obviously not Victor Hugo. **

**2. This story is strictly not to be taken as a political endorsement of any fashion in any way shape or form. This story is set in a time when extreme ideals such as Communism, Fascism and the like were very visible in most European countries, including democracies like France and Britain and ways of thinking were different.**

**3. This story will feature not only extreme politics of both the left and right but war, violence, swearing and (non explicit) sexual references. Consider yourself forewarned. Rated T for now but might put the rating up later depending.**

**4. If all that hasn't put you off, which I hope it hasn't! Enjoy and please let me know what you think anything that can help me improve will be most welcome!**

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Chapter One - A Return of Sorts.

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It rained that day, not the pleasant cleansing rain that had come rarely in the parched Spanish fields, but a soulless powerful rain that caused one's shoulders to hunch under an overcoat and sent trickles of cold misery running behind a person's ears and down the back of their collar.

The grey sky that hung over the city framed the wide streets and boulevards with a vague eeriness, and turned the usually tame Seine into a loud torrent that crashed between the arches of its bridges and the high stone embankments.

A lone, drenched figure shrouded in an unveiled melancholy stood upon shining cobbles staring blankly at an entirely plain wooden door from behind an upturned coat collar. The silence of the stone in the street was cut only by the running sound of water and the clattering of the same water winning a battle with outdated gutter pipes.

In the distance only the sound of motor cars can really be heard from a parallel running street, this little backstreet however has probably never seen a car on its cracked cobbles. The man also wouldn't be surprised if it hasn't seen another person, today at least.

Blonde hair stuck to pale skin and dripped over equally sodden clothes, yet the man makes no attempt to even look for a more sheltered location. He just stares at the door, his face half veiled.

The man thinks randomly that there is no thunder or lighting and that perhaps, it'd be more appropriate if there were. A small part of him, the little tick of a voice long silenced wills him to smile, but his face remains entirely flaccid, his lips will just not provide such a shape anymore.

The minutes tick by, the rain doesn't let up, if anything the washout gets deeper. Its cacophony however is nothing to him in fact he finds it a welcome change. There are many things that could fill this man's mind. For a start he hasn't eaten in nearly a day, not since a quick croissant and lukewarm coffee on the ship that landed in Calais late the night before.

Also, his only worldly possessions at this moment are the clothes he stands up in and the contents of a battered, dirt streaked kit bag at his feet. It's also as saturated as he is. None of this is to mention that the only money he has is the roll of notes in his pocket and even then, they're Spanish Peseta, not Francs.

However, he just can't bring himself to feel anything about any of this. All he can hear beyond that which his actually reaching his ears from his surroundings are the gifts his subconscious presents him, the screams of those who'd fallen but had the lack of fortune not to die in the process. Also the pounding of heavy artillery that he'd come to fear, the popping of rifle fire that sounded so innocuous and the vicious unmistakable bark of machine guns.

He can smell it too, the slight smoky tang in the Parisian air from the coal and wood fires used to make homes and workplaces slightly more comfortable on such an afternoon could be mistaken by placebo for gunpowder. It's also the least offensive of all the smells he's come to recognise. It's alien being home.

He stands for a long time, his joints stiff, his eye's no longer really seeing what's in front of him. There's nobody around at all not just here but on all the streets he walked down to get here, anybody else who has to venture out today is making sure to get back as quickly as possible.

It's cold too, not just because of the weather today, but because the first hints of winter are now lurking in the dark cracks of stone, telling a story of bare trees and icy pavements to come. He thinks then that perhaps it's an omen of everything that he now feels is inevitable.

His fist clenches, he feels his nails dig into the soft flesh of his palm, a staggered breath escapes his lips, his shoulders fall and a few drops of the rain on his cheeks suddenly feel warm. Or is that just his mind playing a trick on him?

All ways he's in turmoil, the worst being he knows exactly why but can do nothing. Put plainly he's terrified and that's not something that comes naturally to him.

He'd been fearful before in his youth, as a child his timid disposition had been a engrained part of his nature, but as he'd aged both in body and mind he'd been seduced by an all consuming passion for a very special mistress.

"Patria" he murmurs with no obvious emotion on a cloud steaming breath, its a name he's not said in some time. His first and so far only 'true love', a symbol, Patria, everything she represented, the people, the nation, justice, fairness and the fight against oppression. Despite not existing in the flesh, to him she'd been the fairest of them all and it'd been his own burning love for her that had pulled him by hook and crook from his shell, leading him through the years to his current path.

Yet now he knows she lays metaphorically bruised and beaten at his feet while he looks on in horror and is entirely powerless to intervene. These thoughts are as consuming as fire, waves of emotion crash hard against the shores of his stability and he isn't entirely sure if the shivering he feels is because of the temperature now.

The sound of footsteps splashing through the torrent that currently passes for a street awaken him. He doesn't know how long he has been standing here now, void of awareness of his surroundings. The footsteps speed up in tempo as they got louder.

His head finally turns and he sees who he'd been hoping, at least in some vague way, would arrive. "Master Enjolras!" the portly middle aged woman he now faces cries in loud relief upon confirming who the stoic figure actually is. There is no mistaking that forthright posture nor the very presence the enigmatic man exudes.

"Mademoiselle Chevrolet" he nods, his tone comes out again emotionless, but not from intention, merely because there is nothing else he can muster right then. His old landlady whom he's not seen in as good as two years he is pleased to notice hasn't changed much. Greying brown hair pulled back into a tight bun, the same camel overcoat that falls around her considerable girth to her ankles and the slight whiskers on her chin are exactly as he remembers them.

"You said my old room was still available?" he continues, presenting a creased envelope bearing the stamp of an international postmark from his pocket to the approaching woman, his tone doesn't change.

Mademoiselle Chevrolet is obviously not satisfied with the greeting he's offered, or at the very least didn't pick up on exactly what state of mind he's in for she begins to scurry over to him and throws her arms around him in a warm gesture that Enjolras now remembers being her trademark.

She is kindly, there never has been a word that fitted a person better, she's a true woman of the people. Not many boarding house owners allowed avowed socialists onto the premises either because of their own political beliefs or out of fear of any trouble it might bring them.

Mademoiselle Chevrolet was not like that, she was a socialist herself, in action at least. Political statement was something she seemingly held little interest in, yet she would never turn a fellow human being aside if she didn't have to. It was why Enjolras held such a soft spot for her and forgave her slightly over personal mannerisms and, sometimes, exasperating insistence that he and her other lodgers, also by en-large young men, or so it had been when he'd last lived here allow her to cook for them on a regular basis or did their chores without complaint or extra charge on top of the rent.

It'd made him feel guilty before, the idea makes him downright uncomfortable now yet he can't find it in himself not to return her well meant embrace, although his grip around her shoulders is far looser than her own around his waist. Her warmth is comforting on a purely observational level he thinks.

When she finally draws away she rounds on him in a heart beat "you've gotten too skinny" she admonishes aiming a violent prod into his ribcage, he takes an involuntary step back grunting in surprise. "And you're absolutely soaked, honestly! How long have you been standing out here?" she cries stepping toward him again staring accusingly "honestly, somebody would think you 'wanted' to catch your death."

_Ouch…_ thinks Enjolras at the tinderbox that statement was… He has no will or thankfully time to contemplate it, "why didn't you knock?" she says loudly in exasperation. "I did" he offers calmly and it's not a lie, "but nobody answered so I guessed you must be out."

She throws him an unimpressed look "and so you thought you'd just stand out here and quite literally soak up this 'fine' weather did you?" He just looks her in the eye, he knows how stupid it sounds but what he says next offers a good explanation. "Being honest Mademoiselle, I had nowhere else to go."

Her expression softens at that and she scoops up his sodden bag in her brawny arms alongside the basket he now notices she already carried and all but starts pushing him towards the door. "Well now you do so I won't hear anymore excuses" she says but her tone has taken on a new edge of sympathy.

Finally its then he gives in for the first time to anything since he'd arrived in the street. Within a moment they're both out of the rain and standing in the dim, relative warmth of the hallway, the plain wooden door now closed again behind them.

"For god's sake" Mademoiselle Chevrolet is still going on in her typical fast semi exasperated voice, "your bag's soaked too, does it really not bother you?" she fusses "I'll have to draw you a bath as soon as possible." Enjolras sighs, that sounds nice, his mind indulges the idea of being immersed in hot water, it's only at that thought he starts to notice how tired he really feels.

Mademoiselle Chevrolet's continuing stream words are now only vaguely registering. "Can't have knocked hard there 'are' others in, I'm pretty sure Thenardier doesn't usually go out for another hour or so" she continues. Whoever that is Enjolras doesn't know, probably another lodger who's moved in since he left. He's secretly a little glad they didn't hear him.

Madame Chevrolet's not being at all obnoxious, or at least she's not trying to be as she goes on, he knows that. Although she is slightly patronising, but then he's fairly sure she has a mothering complex, even though Sigmund Freud he is not.

The psychologist whom he now randomly remembers reading a couple of months ago in a newspaper had fled Nazi controlled Germany for the relative safety of London, has published some fascinating, if slightly disturbing theories. But applying one of these said theories to this well meaning, if mother-hen-clucking woman isn't something he intends to get into.

Mademoiselle Chevrolet still most likely conforms to one of them he thinks his last on the subject, although he in no way means it badly.

"See if I can find you some dry clothes" he hears her say as she quickly bustles into the kitchen, a wave of warmth from the room radiates out, he can't deny it's pleasurable, having walked in the rain for what must've been some hours since his train had arrived at the Gare du Nord at around midday.

Upon arrival he'd, been not so much content as merely inclined to wander the familiar yet uninviting streets in his little bubble before attempting what could be, in a pitiful way described as a homecoming.

"Mutton stew for dinner" Mademoiselle Chevrolet continues reappearing, minus her basket. One might've been forgiven for thinking her oblivious that her words were falling on deaf ears, however Enjolras knows she is all too aware as she approaches him and slips his coat off of his shoulders, he's not sure how he'd forgotten he was still wearing it, and hangs it separately from the dry coats that line the simple set of pegs in the dingy hallway.

"Oh really, your shirt and waistcoat are soaked too" she clucks slightly impatiently upon looking him up and down again. Enjolras's can indeed feel them clinging to him. "It's no trouble Mademoiselle, I have known worse" he says simply.

She eyes him for a second with a questioning gaze before she seemingly decides better of it and dodges his implications, Enjolras isn't ungrateful.

"You're in your old room, I kept it free for you like I promised" she finally says.

She really is a sweetheart. Something Grantaire had so often sloppily proclaimed when he'd visited in his usual drunken haze, those had been better times and Enjolras forces a lid on the thoughts as quickly as he can. Now is not the time.

"I'll let you in and then draw a bath" Mademoiselle Chevrolet continues more for her own benefit than his as she potters towards the stairs and beckons him to follow. He doesn't need prompting twice. She continues rambling absent minded now; he smiles at this it's comforting in a way.

"Got a new stove since you were last here!" she sounds genuinely excited, Enjolras nods politely along as he follows her up the wooden steps. Nothing much had changed not only with her but with the place itself he is oddly glad to see.

The faded white plaster on the walls is still grubby looking, the wooden boards of the floor in the corridors creak under his weight where he remembers them doing so while the smell of people mingled with dust and a hint of damp is still entirely present.

To somebody accustomed to luxury, it might've seemed grim or as he'd heard his father say many a time in his youth 'like a rat hole', but to Enjolras it's been home for a long time and he wishes he could bring himself to be happier to be back.

"It runs on paraffin and does the job so much faster than the horrible old thing we used to have I tell you" she laughs, now she's started on the small talk she won't stop. He offers agreement when it was sought as she explained why she'd invested in a new stove and an affirmation of his sympathies when she tells him Maçon, the houses fat yet affectionate old tabby cat had died the winter previously.

He might've been much sorrier to hear that if it hadn't just sounded like yet another bit of nasty news. He had been fond in his own way of the old tom but it suddenly seems trivial compared to everything else that he's gone through these past couple of years.

The room in question, is one Enjolras had occupied since 1932 when he'd left the home of his fundamentally ideologically incompatible parent's in the bourgeois Saint-Germain-des-Prés district with just a few clothes, books, personal effects and his pride until just under two years ago.

After running away he'd spent a brief stint living on the charity of other kind idealists before he'd been directed to this house and this same room, a room that he now realizes he has indeed lived to see again.

The attic room when he'd first arrived had been plagued with a terrible case of draft and creak to the point where the residents joked of haunting.

Enjolras however had made do, seeing it as an education of sorts. An education in how the proletariat lived for the truth was, in all honesty compared to what vast numbers of people around the world were forced to live with, it wasn't that bad.

As Marx would've termed him, he is well and truly a class traitor, except despite being from the upper classes, if and when the red revolution was to occur, Enjolras himself would've been there to play his part in it's success.

They climb the final flight of stairs and the door to the old room with its nostalgic glare comes into view.

Mademoiselle Chevrolet hunches down at the lock and then in a motion Enjolras himself has done thousands of times gives the door a slight pull outwards and then a rough shove inwards to open.

Familiarity stretched out in all its plain glory. The smallish space, only a few meters across in all ways with sloping ceilings stretched out before him. Both comforted by it and yet with a heavy heart he stepps across the threshold.

If his meekness shows Mademoiselle Chevrolet doesn't seem to notice. Doubtless she would've said something if so, it is just her nature to spell out what she see's before her and be blunt about it in the process. But in the years he's spent dedicated to a now seemingly tattered cause, his poker face has become impeccable.

To that end he simply looks around. Seeing his old room again is like observing a masterpiece just brought out of storage. What made it what it was before is still present and to be observed, but the ravages of time have faded it and robbed it of its original vibrancy.

As he looks around the floorboards from near the door creak in a nostalgic sound. He turns, Mademoiselle Chevrolet has pottered back into the doorway and is smiling at him, a warm smile that he appreciates but can't return.

"Welcome home monsieur" she beams before turning and walking towards the stairs, at the top she turns back for a second "I shall put some pans of water on the boil immediately, can't have you catching cold now."

Enjolras bows slightly "thank you mademoiselle for your continued kindness", it seems appropriate but she waves him off. He had intended to inform her he would pay her as soon as he could get his money changed but she is gone in a flash of a faded green skirt and grey apron before he can open his mouth to continue. Her footsteps retreat into the distance leaving him again entirely alone.

He stares for a few seconds at her absence before closing the door silently and leaning against it. His kit bag lies in a small gathering puddle on the floor in the middle of the room. The bed, his bed, is covered in a large white sheet that looks to be coated in dust. The desk at which he'd once often sat bowed writing essays for his law degree looks unmoved since he last saw it.

He wonders if he opens the desk draws whether he'll find some of his old things that he hadn't taken with him in 'thirty six.

Sure enough there they are when curiosity gets the better of him, the odds and ends he hadn't thought would be useful where he'd then intended to go.

A slightly battered silver pen sits atop of some yellowing books, the top one of which although battered, it's cover scarred from old age and being well travelled, clearly recognisable as the Communist Manifesto which is placed atop an equally ragged copy of The Revolution in the Mind and Practice of the Human Race by Robert Owen.

He bends down looking at them, wet clothes squeak as they rub against his hunched form. The silence of the room is broken only by the sound of the rain on the roof.

All around him the atmosphere is now pervaded by the memories of cold winter nights and glorious lazy summer days in younger years when in hours he had to kill, he'd spent his time in this room with Marx & Engels, Rousseau, Robespierre, Plato and the like.

The ideals, the eloquence and the prospect of a better world had seemed attainable then. Sure, he remembers thinking that it wouldn't be easy, but also that things could only get better if he applied himself. The bile of bitterness stings him all of a sudden and with a violent jerk he slams the draw shut with an angered hiss.

It was the jerk of his sudden motion, the tensing as a result of it which causes it; his leg takes that moment to seize up with a debilitating cramp. He should have seen this coming considering. Yet all the same with an agonised cry he falls backwards upon the bed becoming enveloped a billowing cloud of dust.

'_Oh yes how could I have forgotten?'_ He snarls to himself.

Sneezing harshly, he can however only flail pathetically until the pain has passed and thank whatever, be it the God he so fervently didn't believe in or some other transcendent force when it finally eases off leaving him sighing in relief.

The mattress is still soft he notices, his breathing is heavy, his heartbeat raised, he feels fundamentally tired all of a sudden. This makes the bed all the more comfortable. Even cold and dusty, it's a huge improvement compared to sleeping in a dugout or in open country as he'd become used to 'there' as his mind termed it.

Sudden lethargy makes him reluctant to move again and so he shifts to merely laying on his side, affected leg held at a comforting angle, gazing at the opposite wall while memories stir.

For a brief moment, he nearly panics at the thought of returning, but when he recognises the sound they conjure in his mind as merely voices and nothing more he is calmed and allows himself to sink back into them for an escape.

Yet not only for that but also another reason, and all he thinks about that before he stops trying to think all together is was how selfish it of a reason it actually is.

* * *

_Two Years Earlier_

It'd all started on that day, a day he'd never forget.

The 17th August, 1936 had been largely a normal day as he'd crossed the threshold of the Café Musain. The tobacco smoke from cigarettes and pipes hung like a cloud as Enjolras had entered and he'd felt it being instantly to claw at his throat, cigarettes were something Enjolras had never taken to, much like conforming.

Although considering where he now was, being non-conformist came with the territory. The infamous Café Musain had a reputation which far outshone its relatively small physical area.

It wasn't specifically seedy, nor was it a den for the smoking of opium, the drinking of cheap knock-off brandy or illicit sex that never closed like other equally infamous 'establishments' in the hidden world of Parisian backstreets so often were.

Yet, it was a place spoken about with caution, a place it didn't do well to be seen if you weren't part of a specific world or at the very least didn't wish your name to become associated with it.

The interior design wouldn't have given anything away if a person had unwittingly wandered in off the streets. Wood constituted the floor, stained from decades of drunken spillages of wine or stronger drinks. Heavy coloured hard wood made the bar and the pillars which rose around the dark lacquered tables.

The hearth that while silent and cold that day, often burnt brightly, still provided the main source of warmth and light from autumn through to spring year in year out also would've given away any hint of the seemingly simple places untoward reputation.

Yet as Enjolras crossed the threshold and scanned the dimly lit familiarity of the café's lower bar he knew that there genuinely were people, in no small number, who would purposely avoid him if they knew he'd come here even once.

However, it was that very thing that had originally enticed him and persuaded him to return again and again until he became almost an institution within another.

The reason for the infamy of the place?

It was fairly simple; it was a favoured haunt of all political leftists who called Paris home.

If Marxist politics, plotting the people's revolution or drunkenly insulting the bourgeoisie was your thing, it was the first and only place in town to be.

Naturally, when at the age of just fifteen, as his affair with radical politics had really ignited, he'd longed to make his way across the city to hear what those whom also believed in the overthrow of the oppressive classes of which he'd so ashamedly been born into and the creation of the People's Republic had to say.

Still, he'd been eighteen when he'd finally like a moth to a flame had his chance to visit, while in his first year studying at the university.

Now, twenty one and having graduated with a first class law degree of which he was, rightfully, entirely proud, the café was like a second home. Comrade Enjolras 'the class traitor to the good guys' as they'd affectionately nicknamed him had been welcomed into the fold.

Yet, it hadn't been that easy, for a long time he'd been distrusted, shunned and derided. Still, he held nobody any ill will for that, in fact he entirely understood for he himself had become suspicious of such people in the exact same way.

It hadn't been until he'd almost been arrested on Bastille Day, 1934 when he and some of his fellow revolutionary minded students whom frequented the café and held similar ideals had jumped the barriers of Champs-Elysées Military parade and with red flags held high then began weaving amongst the cavalry loudly, and perhaps badly, singing the Internationale that the regulars here came to accept him as the genuine article.

It'd merely been a stunt that day. A stunt with a vague hope of inciting some popular cheer, but also, perhaps attracting the cause some publicity while instilling a potent message of the future to those whom still grew fat and rich at the expense of their fellow man. On that day however, those people had won in the end.

Enjolras and his troublemaking comrades had been forced to split and run when the streets filled with the sounds of police whistles and angered shouts. He'd spent several frustrating days following lying low in his room awkwardly hoping none of his comrades had been caught.

Unfortunately, with a fair amount of guilt he later discovered when he'd finally ventured blinking from his grotto, having spent five days reading or deep in thought when neither sleeping or wondering, surprisingly calmly, if he would be hearing the clomp of police jackboots on the stairs that poor Joly had been captured in action.

Joly a medical student blessed with a both a heart of gold and a will for revolution yet also hypochondria had been caught and questioned indelicately by none other than Javert himself, a man whose name he had come to loath.

Inspector Javert, the over-zealous, authoritarian and strictly counter-revolutionary figure whom Enjolras and his comrades liked to characterise, perhaps slightly unfairly as 'the last Tsar of Paris' hounded anybody he believed to be involved in revolutionary activities, or was in his eye's, a traitor.

Although in fairness Enjolras had heard stories, that he didn't disbelieve, that Javert hounded anybody he thought guilty of even a relatively minor offence. The man from all accounts believed any act of 'criminality' instantly rendered an individual the scum of the earth with no chance of redemption.

Still Joly had been released within a couple of days due to lack of evidence of a chargeable offence, albeit with several nasty bruises from where they'd restrained him as he was arrested and entirely convinced he was suffering from a fatal haemorrhage in his torso. Yet somehow, just somehow he'd managed to lead Javert away from the scent, and luckily, none of them had been seen by him since.

When he'd seen Joly's injuries however, he'd for a moment, only the briefest of them, regretted what they'd done. It'd been fleeting though, for then had come the anger at how a republic three times founded on liberty could treat its citizens so badly for advocating improving the lot of the vast majority of its people.

'Not to mention on the orders of those who'd never known the wrath of hunger and degradation!' He'd angrily announced in a small time speech he'd later given about the events of that day and the lessons it had imparted on him.

'Especially considering that our beloved people were the first in Europe to overthrow its tyrannical upper class in the name of justice!' That had gotten a rousing cheer from all those whom had listened.

It was these feelings though he found he especially shared with this small group of his fellow students. Comrade Enjolras had become a familiar speaker in debates at the café following his acceptance and they were always amongst the crowd.

The flame of revolutionary passion burnt within his very core and in them too for it had been them he'd conspired with on that hot July day. It'd started out more as an idea before going serious and then going ahead, Enjolras had known several of them had seen it as a bit of a joke, he'd hoped their eye's had been opened after.

Perhaps they had, for before that, they'd met randomly in-between and after lectures and talked, initially sticking to politics and staying single minded on their obvious common grounds. That day had changed things though, they'd naturally started to congregate more often and their connections had branched out into full blown friendships.

The bonds he'd formed with these fellow young men had solidified into brotherhood and Enjolras had become the authority figure, the mentor and de facto leader despite never once having asked for it. Initially jokingly the small group, which had originally numbered less than a dozen, had formed the 'Les Amis de Les travailleurs français' or 'L'TF' as they largely called it.

It was no official organisation, more once again a joke, at least to everyone except Enjolras himself, that had turned serious. Admittedly their meetings still often turned into drinking sessions, or at least for most except Enjolras whom barely ever partook out of a lack of interest. But the politics of revolution were nearly always the topic of the day, even if women, studies and friendly banter often added extra flavours.

That day had been no exception. Back in his domain on the bright summer afternoon he'd approached his friends with a face of cast iron, something he held near enough permanently.

It'd been Grantaire who'd piped up first upon recognising Enjolras's trademark red waistcoat, never worn without the rosette style pin badge they'd fashioned for themselves based on the style of those worn in the French Revolution except entirely in red pinned to it.

His voice carried a slur like it always did, he'd been at the wine most likely for hours now despite it being merely around 3pm. "Our fearless comrade has finally joined his fellow workers!" he cried dramatically to much amusement, although the few sniggers that occurred around the table were at his expense and not his 'wit', still he either didn't notice or care.

"Have some wine and enlighten us on where you have been for the last couple of days" he'd continued loudly and entirely confidently.

Of course, Enjolras had been expecting such a greeting, it was only natural for he had indeed been absent from their meetings for a couple of nights. He tried his best to think of an answer quickly that wouldn't be too blunt, for the decision he'd made and he'd come with the intention of announcing was not a thing to be taken lightly.

For now, a time in which they spent planning their parts in the inevitable revolution on the horizon would come to an end. Enjolras had put his mind to something far more immediate.

"Apologies" he said simply, his voice clear and unwavering "I've been thinking about something that I now feel I must do if I'm to advance our beloved cause."

Several of his friend's brows furrowed, Courfeyrac, a curly haired, chiselled jawed longstanding confidante of Enjolras's gestured to the empty chair next to him.

In Enjolras's assessment, he was perhaps the most outgoing and certainly the most charming of their numbers. Long famed for not only his skills of articulation second only to Enjolras himself but to the number of women he seemingly effortlessly gained the affection of.

What would he think? Still Enjolras didn't waver, if Courfeyrac and the others didn't support his decision then so be it.

Enjolras took the seat quickly while simultaneously pushing away the wine bottle Grantaire attempted to hand him with an assertive look that said everything he thought without a word. The wild haired, unshaven drunkard merely shrugged and took another swig. Enjolras internally rolled his eyes and turned eyed to the rest of his friends one by one.

Courfeyrac he now noticed had a folded piece of paper in front of him, he was probably writing a letter to his latest girlfriend. Grantaire was, of course drinking like a fish. Combeferre, a philosophy graduate and perhaps less of a communist than a socialist educationalist sat expectantly looking at Enjolras.

It was a look shared by Prouvaire, the youngest of their ranks who also held a romantic flare not unlike Courfeyrac but whom much like Enjolras himself, was a staunch admirer of Leon Trotsky, a fact that could easily get one into hot water amongst the pro-Stalin folk who also frequented the establishment.

And finally of course Marius with his youthful freckled faced and looking as immaculately dressed as always. He was a young man whom Enjolras probably held the most mixed feelings about. The problem with Marius in his opinion, as much as there was one, for despite being a little naïve, or so Enjolras thought anyway, he did possess a heart in entirely the right place, was that he could never exactly make up his mind 'where' he stood.

Not so unlike Enjolras, Marius had come from nearer to the top than most, a member of the rich Pontmercy family which he too had rejected in the name of his beliefs. However those beliefs seemed to change often.

He'd never once heard Marius proclaim loyalty to the socialist cause although he'd often heard him express his outrage at the lack of support for the poor and beleaguered of France. Enjolras supposed it was good enough at face value, at all rates he was a good friend and if Enjolras had been more sentimental that would've meant a great deal, but he couldn't quite quell the doubt he felt in his friend's commitment.

"By all means 'Jolras, feel free to enlighten us" Combeferre asked interestedly. Enjolras was known for taking his time to answer but he'd been silent for several moments longer than was usual even for him as he attempted to pick his words.

"Yeah we've been coming up with theories" said Joly with a hint of a grin, Enjolras could've groaned, he knew the sort of thing that was coming. Sure enough, "mine was you'd suffocated under a sea of your own books" Joly continued.

"Hah, I still preferred my idea that he'd finally run away to the Soviet Russia" nodded Courfeyrac talking to the others but shooting Enjolras a youthful teasing look which only made Enjolras's eye's narrow in a glare.

Seeing this however only made it worse for now their tones became far more boisterous. Combeferre raised his hands "No no!" he laughed shaking his head "it's like I told you, you guys are thinking too inside the box! He's fallen for some rich piece of skirt and been hiding at her place, that's what I bet it is." Several suggestive smirks went Enjolras's way.

Of course Grantaire waded in then, Enjolras was only surprised it'd taken this long.

"Pfft like 'Jolras here has a heart to lose to any broad, my bet is he just decided to 'research' how real people live, went and got really pissed and picked up a classy 'lady' for a good romping."

"Now Grantaire that's not what everyone does, even if that's just an average weekend for you..." winked Joly, it was no secret that the medical student had often had to look after the drunkard following the many fights or unknown drunken injuries he'd turned up with. Everyone at the table roared with laugher. That was of course, except their erstwhile leader.

"Gentlemen this is getting rather silly." Enjolras snapped.

"Oh well then why don't you just out with it? Honestly the suspense is killing me" Prouvaire who'd just been laughing along with the others until now winked in response. "But seriously, don't tell us you've had a change of ways and now support Action Française?" he teased.

That line had gotten him death glares from all except Grantaire whom was still giggling in a way which even managed to sound like drunken drawl. To name Action Française here was comparable to waving a Red Flag outside the Waffen-SS Headquarters in Berlin, to say it was a bad move was an understatement. Fortunately apart from them the place was fairly empty.

Still, on that he didn't need to choose any words carefully, "if 'that' ever happens by all means feel free to shoot me if I haven't myself already" hissed Enjolras through gritted teeth. The fascistic monarchists of the Action Française movement offended him enough through their very existence; the thought of joining their ranks was just downright ghastly.

Enjolras sighed and decided that eloquence was perhaps not the best path today. The table had fallen into silence following a now uncomfortable looking Prouvaire's remark. But his friends were obviously in a teasing mood and therefore being blunt and to the point would work best he judged, this would go on all afternoon, evening and likely tomorrow otherwise.

"Everybody" he began and silence fell instantly, Enjolras might've been an easy target for lampoon but when he demanded attention he got it, no questions. "As we are all too aware, the Spanish Republic is under threat." The dark looks that wiped away their previous cheer said they'd all read the newspapers and knew the story well enough.

In 1931 he'd still been living with his family, this before the vicious arguments had begun and before he'd left to make his own way, when he'd been told that the Spanish people had united to overthrow their military government and forced their King to flee into exile before proclaiming a Republic.

He remembered how he'd angered his worried traditionalist father by making quite clear how pleased he was by the news. Since then Enjolras had deeply admired the Spanish state and it's highly democratic socialist/anarchic orientation.

"Of course… it's terrible who'd have thought anybody in Spain could ever support those Nationalist scumbags" hissed Combeferre, voicing what everyone else who came to the café had said on the subject.

It was Marius's turn to pipe up then "agreed" he sighed "I'm just waiting for 'Herr Hitler' and Mussolini to jump in. They've been looking for an excuse to start killing our comrades abroad since they got done persecuting them in their own nations."

Enjolras looked to Marius and their eyes met, there was nothing dishonest in his gaze Enjolras judged and he nodded along adding bitterly "I too doubt it'll be long."

"And of course our 'beloved' government and the British are scared of pissing those two bastards off and of the revolution itself. So they won't send help to the republic" Courfeyrac growled.

Enjolras nodded "they fear the revolution not realizing the more they refrain from decisive action the more important one becomes." His tone had grown in pitch; the heat of passion was running within him now. Everyone at the table could see Enjolras was about to launch into one of his fire eyed speeches and all awaited it, their gazes not leaving his face.

"As you rightly say nobody outside Spain officially does anything to aid the republic, even 'comrade' Stalin does little" he arose from his seat with a scowl. Stalin to his mind embodied everything about a revolution gone wrong, just like King Louis Philippe I in the 1830s, installed by a popular revolution but after doing nothing to advance it as promised and becoming a tyrant themselves like those they'd initially been there to replace.

Others in the café were now turning to watch, Enjolras could feel himself buzzing slightly now. "The true Spanish state" he continued "that believes in liberty, democracy in it's true form, as in the will of it's people and most of all the restriction of those who seek to use those people merely for their own personal gain!"

Grantaire began drumming on the table with his hands while several cheers were uttered from those at the table, even Marius joined in although he was far more subdued than the others.

Enjolras felt the smile of vindication in his heart as he went on "the just Spanish Republic is now threatened by a reactionary uprising, Franco, their fascist leader cares only for maintaining power where it's always been and forcing the Spanish people to live in fear after all they've achieved."

The general cacophony at their table only increased to the point it might've lifted the roof off the place.

"But comrades, hope is not lost, for as we speak our brave brothers and sisters from around the world who believe as we do rally to form International Brigades of volunteers to help fight to defend the Republic and the cause" he knew they saw where this was going now, the sudden hints of discomfort on his friends faces was evident.

Courfeyrac's face fell, Marius in anticipation seemed to turn white, Combeferre froze in his spot but Enjolras was firm. His mind had been made up two days ago, he would carry through, if his friends didn't have the stomach then so be it but he would inform them none the less.

"And so, I feel it my duty to join them to fight this evil! Spain gives France hope and if we would lay down our lives to free the oppressed of France how can we deny the same to those who've already been brave enough to try for it?"

He took a moment to look each of his friends in the eye after having said that, a non verbal challenge it most definitely was. He would've never demanded his friends fight, but he would certainly put their minds to the subject and have them consider it, all ways he'd be arranging passage to Barcelona as soon as he could, alone if needs be.

Silence reigned over everyone at the table. Enjolras merely stood assured in his stance. Grantaire he saw took a deep swig of his bottle. "I do not expect you to join me if you do not wish too but know I would be proud to fight alongside any one of you" he took a moment to look directly at Marius as he said that, he knew the young man would be the least keen.

But then, nobody looked particularly keen, but he also noted nobody looked surprised. He'd said all he had to and so merely stood waiting for one of them to speak.

It was Courfeyrac who did "Enjolras are you serious?" he said with a tone of completely earnest incredulity. He'd expected as much, looking his old friend straight in the eye, he saw the man shiver slightly, his gaze seemed to have that effect on people if he tried yet he'd never been exactly sure why, more he'd just known it did and what he had to do for it.

"Yes Courfeyrac I am entirely serious" he affirmed keeping his delivery deadpan. Again silence hung around the table and its occupants several of whom he noted exchanged glances.

"Enjolras, I don't doubt you've put a lot of thought into this before telling us, but I feel the need to ask for I've read it enough times in the accounts of people to wonder, do you actually know what you'll be getting yourself into?" asked Combeferre hesitantly.

Enjolras turned to his comrade "I believe I do, I know enough of the Great War and how terrible it was, I don't expect it'll be any better and considering technological improvements, probably worse…" he paused, it wasn't a nice admission all ways.

"But in the name of liberating the peoples of the Earth I am prepared to swallow any fear of death and take my place." He said it so confidently, so assuredly for the plain truth was he didn't doubt, death did not frighten him but the thought of Spain falling to fascism did, it really was that simple.

His fellows of the Les Amis still looked disbelieving, he noted that Grantaire actually hadn't raised the bottle he now clutched with white knuckles for what must've been a couple of minutes as he gazed wide eyed and intoxicated at Enjolras.

"Enjolras, are you sure this is what you want to do?" asked Marius softly, his inflection carried a different tone to the others on whom there was already seemingly a resignation to the facts, on Marius though he thought he still saw doubtfulness.

Enjolras sighed internally, if there was one person at this table he was expecting grief from over this, excluding Grantaire since the man nearly always gave him something to be quietly exasperated with, it was Marius.

He turned to face him, the cogs of his brain already working furiously on a way to respond to his friend and convince him, it came, he knew what he'd say and he opened his mouth to speak.

But, before he could produce a single utterance, a strange sensation came over him as if somebody laid a hand upon him and began physically shaking him.

* * *

"Monsieur Enjolras" says a familiar voice. It has a faraway quality, as if he's hearing it from underwater. He finds himself in a strange dark place for a few blinkered moments before his eye's slide open and he's looking at his old desk again.

Mademoiselle Chevrolet is standing over him, her podgy hand resting on his shoulder, it's only now he realizes he's been asleep. It makes sense and he arises groggily rubbing at his eyes, how long he's been down he has no idea but he doesn't feel well rested.

"Honestly Monsieur" Mademoiselle Chevrolet begins fussing again, "the linen isn't clean and you're still wet from outside" she pauses for a moment to make her exasperation even more apparent with a shake of her head. Enjolras merely notes that she is indeed correct on both counts and stands up once more, then realizing that he'd even neglected to remove his boots before he'd laid down.

He hears Mademoiselle Chevrolet talking to him; her tone is still that of motherly irritation and edged with a hint of world-weariness. He turns and apologises but she brushes him off and begins pulling the old sheets from his bed.

She talks, but as she does so but he doesn't quite hear her, his mind slips back to the dream he just came from. It made a nice change from the ones he's become used too; they're darker and far less pleasant.

He thinks of his friends and guilt begins to well up, what happened 'was' his fault and he knows it, the memory of his assertive self that day only adds to his dejection. His friends, they were his friends and now… He doesn't want to go there yet, he's still not ready.

Fortunately, once more Mademoiselle Chevrolet saves him from having to for she begins stripped his bed, he listens to her chatter once more for the few moments it takes until she turns back around.

"I've drawn you a bath, the bathroom hasn't moved since you were last here and I'll see if Monsieur Mercier downstairs has a nightshirt you can borrow" she says with a smile as she bundles the dirty sheets into a ball.

Enjolras doesn't recognise the name like that other she mentioned earlier, what was it? He can't remember, still both must be new tenants he guesses, but still he feels slightly uncomfortable, he's grown unaccustomed to Mademoiselle Chevrolet's kindness, in Spain he'd done his own chores or gone without and that was that.

"You're too kind to me" he says, his voice is tender. She seems to notice and for a second he see's concern in her eyes as he looks at her, his head bowed slightly while damp blonde hair frames his defined jaw and nose.

"Nonsense." She brushes him off with a wave of her hand and a hard-knock stare "you can never be too kind. Or, so my dearest mother taught me and if that's not true then I don't want to know what is" there is nothing left for Enjolras to say, he thinks she has argument quelling and deflection of doubt down to an art form and he quite agrees with her words.

She begins again to walk away again pausing only in the door to say "better hurry, the bath won't stay hot forever" she takes another step before adding "oh and don't think you can get out of dinner before you go back to bed either."

Enjolras shuffles uncomfortably but nods, how could he ever be as ungracious as to say no, really? She smiles slyly, knowing she has won and turns again, disappearing down the stairs.

Enjolras takes a moment to stretch, sigh and realize that he feels clammy now not only from his damp clothes but because of having slept in them too, however short the period it was, he can't deny, a hot bath does sound wonderful.

He sets out remembering the bathroom to be at the end of the second floor corridor, he heads down the stairs and notes Mademoiselle Chevrolet is now nowhere to be seen as he reaches the right corridor, he also with a wince gathers that the terrible ache that comes after cramp is yet to ware off.

Its dark here, no windows except one over the stairs, a large old fashioned arched affair, are present and natural light is at a minimum. To add to this it's dusk outside and from the sound of it, the weather hasn't improved. There is electrical lighting, but Enjolras doesn't feel it right to turn it on considering he's not the one paying for it.

All the doors that line the corridor on either side, four in all are closed. He hears nothing that he isn't the cause of as he approaches the bathroom door, which is why when with a sudden loud click one of the bedroom doors on his right swings open and a young man with a powerful stride appears through it in a swish of a weather stained trench coat he nearly jumps.

The door behind the boy whose face is obscured both by the dark and a low pulled newsboy cap slams and in the sudden darkness the young man apparently doesn't notice Enjolras.

It happens fast, in the blink of an eye pretty much, Enjolras doesn't have room in the relatively confined space of the corridor to move aside in time and the two collide painfully.

Enjolras stumbles backwards hitting the wall with some force, his leg thankfully does not act up again and he springs into a combat position on instinct before realizing where he is. The young man on the other hand doesn't do so well and falls flat on his arse with a loud thud.

"Ow shit" he curses and Enjolras finds himself taken aback for his voice is not masculine at all. As the boy then looks up sharply to observe whom he hit the two see each other properly for the first time.

It is there Enjolras realizes 'he' is not a boy at all but in fact a young woman, as best he can tell she's in her early twenties, so not much younger than himself and he definitely doesn't recognise her face.

She looks at him oddly for a second as if to ask him what he's doing. He's confused momentarily himself before he becomes aware of how he's standing, hunched, muscles tense while trying to hold a rifle he no longer possesses.

He springs back into a more regular position, not quite aware of how odd he really must look right now. Such a stance has become second nature to him when something out of the ordinary occurs; he completely fails to realize that embarrassment would be usual at this point.

"Do excuse me Mademoiselle" he says quietly holding out a pale hand. Her dark eyes observe him for a second and he feels well and truly uncomfortable once more.

She however ignores his hand and hoists herself up inelegantly but with a notable lack of fuss. He see's she's rubbing at her lower back and he considers asking if she's okay, it would definitely be appropriate however he also see's the look she's giving him, it can best be described he thinks as one quarter confusion, to another disinterest and the other half contempt.

Enjolras has seen what happens to people when they're hurting badly, it's not pretty, nor like so many other things, something he wishes to think about. But, he knows from it that there can't be much wrong with this woman from her silence. Even the most stoic character will start to scream when in enough pain he notes with a wince, he's sure she has seen it.

Her posture is now strong, almost as if offering challenge. Her shoulders squared slightly, a dark eyebrow rises for a second before it drops into an expression that simply seems to say 'actually never mind.' It's not anger he see's exactly, at least not the overt aggressive type, more like an irritation, the slightly jagged rate of her breathing which echoes in the pungent silence also sounds annoyed.

He also notes that her cap has fallen off, probably as she fell and it's revealed a mass of dark hair. Also now he see's that despite her man's hat and coat, she is in fact most definitely entirely feminine of feature and dressed like as such beneath her outerwear in a simple long skirted dress with a belt and dark boots.

Whoever this girl is though, she obviously doesn't want to hang around and make friends, the slightly nasal noise of indignation she makes when he guesses he doesn't get out of her way fast enough for her liking sums it up all too well. This to Enjolras is fine; he is hardly in a mood for introductions himself.

"My apologies again" he says simply as he finally stands aside to let her pass, he see's absolutely no need to be impolite. She however takes a further moment to scrutinize him, or so it appears before something seems to fall from her look, the contempt seems to drop from her eyes but that's that or if it's not, the rest is unreadable.

She strides past him now, eye's forward on where she's going, but as she passes Enjolras hears her. Although curtly, he can't mistake her words, spoken in a rough accent that sounds entirely working class "thanks and sorry too" before with a light-footed clomp of boots he's now certain are too big for her she's gone.

Enjolras blinks at the sudden emptiness for a few seconds; the atmosphere has completely changed to one of stillness once again.

He thinks that was unexpected and slightly strange. But it's lost from his mind within a minute, for as he prepares to slip into the inviting tin bathtub, his thoughts are, as is normal these days, a million miles away and they stay like that for a long time thereafter.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading, I'll update again soon but until then review or some such and don't feel the need to be shy about it.**

**Also side note if you're interested in any of the history or have any general questions about the fic feel free to ask and I'll try my best to give you a decent answer.**

'**Les Amis de** **Les travailleurs français' roughly means 'Friends of the French Workers.'**

**Action Française – Was a far right French political party/movement (which still exists in a fairly insignificant way today) that was powerful in France before World War Two. It supported restoring the French Monarchy and later became more like a Fascist party and to some extent aided the Nazis during the occupation in WW2.**


	2. The Long Afternoon

**A/N: Firstly, cheers to everybody who followed this story based on the first chapter and a special thanks to Spirit of Dawn who took the time to review, it meant a lot. I just hope I can live up…  
**

**I think I might get into a routine of updating once every week and a half to two weeks but we'll see, I had intended to get this out sooner but I've got a lot of Uni work to do right now. **

**Also this chapter was originally going to be much longer and cover a lot more but it got to about 25 pages and still wasn't near done so I decided to cut it in half and have this as just a slow burn introduction to Eponine's character. The other half will form part of the next chapter.**

**Again I don't own Les Mis and without further ado.**

* * *

Chapter Two – The Long Afternoon.

* * *

When her eye's opened thick from sleep that September day her stomach had instantly almost flipped over. The memory of what today means comes flooding back within an instant and she squirms below the covers.

From the dim light that is slipping in from behind the moth-eaten curtains she can tell it's gloomy outside. In some ways it's welcome for these curtains offer little against bright sunshine as she'd discovered much to her annoyance many a time on the bright summer days that has only stopped coming not a couple of weeks ago.

Her grimy window is sadly east facing, meaning that on those mid summer mornings when the dawn cracked at five or six, she'd be awoken at those hours half blinded and unable to ignore it to fall asleep again, usually only a small number of hours after she had first gotten to sleep. This has happened on more occasions than she cares to remember.

Today thankfully this is not the case for the battered, old fashioned pocket watch on her bedside, the origins of which she honestly hopes nobody would ever inquire about, tells her it's around two in the afternoon. She's had a solid ten hour sleep then and for that she can't complain.

She yawns and rubs at her eyes, the gritty feeling of hard sleep rolling away seems to symbolise the commitment she's not yet made to getting up, for when she get's up today becomes real.

Usually every morning is like another to her; the constant battle with the will to go back to sleep and the internal sigh at the knowledge that the new day will most likely be a mirror of the one before it and entirely underwhelming. But again, today that doesn't apply; instead she feels a mix of exhilaration and terror.

She doesn't sit up, not yet for despite it all the warmth of her bed is too comfortable to surrender at this point. The days are getting cooler now and the sound of rain hitting the window pane does nothing to entice her, although it does make her curse slightly.

_"Of all the days to rain it had to be today didn't it? It's just your luck Eponine." _

She tries not to think on the negative connotations of that and instead focuses on the medium sized spider crawling across the ceiling above her. It's the same one that's been calling up there home for three days now and she hasn't been bothered to evict yet for its presence doesn't offend her. With an adolescence like hers, spent largely in a place where insects of all varieties, rats and occasionally flea infested stray cats would appear seemingly out of nowhere, she'd had to learn not to be squeamish fast.

"You're lucky" she whispers up to it as she watches it go on it's way, it's not very interesting really, but there's nothing else worth paying attention to in the room at this moment.

A part of her doesn't want to think about what's ahead while another chastises her that nobody except herself has made today into anything special. The way she beats herself up is much the way she did yesterday, the day before and all of the four before since she sent the letter that's caused all this.

Silence permeates the room and it settles in the corners, that'd been one thing she'd really noticed when she'd first arrived here seven months ago, the quiet. Her life had changed completely that day and she wasn't at all ungrateful.

But the change has still been dramatic, before she would've been up much earlier than this, quite probably with the sun if she'd wanted a good chance of getting food. A chance to experience such quiet as this would've been a fine thing. Back then she'd longed for it, yet ironically she finds it oppressive now.

That first morning she'd encountered it had been a lukewarm day in late March. The time of year when the birds were beginning to appear alongside fresh leaves on trees and nights when one fortunate enough to possess such things as a hot water bottle, didn't need it for the first time what seemed like an eternity.

The day before that had been an emotional and confusing one, she remembers it well.

In fairness there has been a surplus of such days in her life, but that one stands out even so. She'd been absolutely exhausted when she'd fallen into this bed for the first time and at that point she hadn't quite believed it would be hers for longer than a single night.

So when she'd sat up with a start the next morning, not recognising where she was and trying to quell rising panic to discover only the silence and sense of being well rested that had been nothing but a distant memory for a long time, it'd been entirely surreal.

It had also felt serene then but the novelty had faded. It'd meant peace of mind and safety in the spring, now however, in autumn it means lonesomeness and drudgery of what she knows to be missing in her life.

That's why she took such a bold step a week or so ago but despite how confident she was then, the insecurity it's brought her has been hell. Still she can't regret it, it had to be done.

In a way it's made her miss her life before. Certainly it hadn't been pleasant and she hardly wishes to recount it, yet at least oddly enough she felt alive by default. When she'd had to look after herself, every single thing she did had to have some sort of meaning or logical thought behind it that worked to her advantage; otherwise she was simply wasting valuable time.

With this no longer being the case she feels an uncomfortable sense of idleness that hardly helps her on a normal day. But furthermore, what she guesses she really misses is the fact she could dream then that things could get better and the dream could be simple and straightforward.

When she'd imagined better then, it had meant decent food, a warm bed and no fear of what the next day might bring. That had to her been the definition of the word since just before she'd hit her teens. Now aged twenty one years, those goals had been achieved, and yet 'better' was still to be desired, and the form it took was crippling to her.

"Marius" she murmurs aloud, her voice still heavy from sleep yet also laced with both bliss and fear. There it is, the single name that has power over her, the power to make all the flesh on her arms and back break into goose bumps, make warmth flash through her cheeks and set her insides dancing.

The truth is that in all, Eponine isn't a happy woman. She knows that all too well, but Marius, he changes that for a time at least. When he's with her she just feels it uncontrollably, like a curtain has been blown aside and through the window it reveals is the light she's clasping for. The key to the cage in which the illusive creature that is happiness is stored.

He's handsome too and that helps, but it's not that which does for her. Not even when the one of his infectious smile graces those freckly features and warm hearted eyes that she's memorized so well. What really touches her is the fact that he's seeing her through those eyes. When he looks at her she knows, she can just feel it, what he's looking at is a person and one with something inside that he believes is worth seeing.

That's more than anybodies ever given her and it makes her melt and want him more than she's ever wanted anybody in her generally misanthropic existence.

She knows she should be ecstatic anyway that she's gotten the simple things that she used to lay at night, invariably somewhere cold and uncomfortable, dreaming of for so long. But of course, as is sods law, it apparently doesn't work like that and without her Marius it all seems mockingly empty.

She feels the frustration, the physical type. Her face scrunches with it and it turns into annoyance. Her toes curl, her legs kick outwards and she exhales deeply making it sound more like a growl.

_"Why can I not just be happy with what I've got?"_ she wonders, yet she knows the answer really and too boot she feels she knows something else too, _"I don't deserve this."_

Marius flickers through her head again putting a stop to such thoughts. The smile that turns the corners of her mouth is entirely automatic as is the way her innards drop as she remembers that by the end of the day, she'll know the definitive answer.

She begins to ponder the idea of them together. The memory of his voice echoes through her head in its usual softness, _"'Ponine" _it says simply and her heart flutters.

She loves him. A year ago she would've cynically laughed at anybody who even suggested the idea of falling in love to her but now she's been corrected. There's nobody else like him and she doubts there ever would be.

She wills her mind to take her back to 'that' day. The day she likes to remember, one of the very few, it's the day when everything changed, when she first met him and her life turned completely around.

* * *

_Seven Months Earlier._

Despite being late morning, if one knew where to lurk Paris offered plenty of opportunities. The old wooden slums and streets paved with inches of filth that a hundred years earlier would've been the world she inhabited might have been cleared away decades ago for beautiful bourgeois areas of widened streets and grand stone, but here and there lingered the hangover of a time gone by.

In that here and there Eponine made her home and had for nearly a year since she'd finally run away from the pitiful excuse she had for a family and their so called 'home'. Out here she had no choice but to do things like this, or at least the few that she did have were even less appealing than this, but it's still far better than 'that place' as she thinks of her past life now.

Her feet were absolutely frozen for they're bare, her shoes long ago having fallen apart and the smells of the backend of the city, be it sewage, soot or her unwashed state clings to the rags she wears. The faded skirt and blouse she wore had been through the wars and looked as much of a state as her emaciated form, but then time on the streets did that to you.

Her dark eye's peered out from the end of the alleyway into the busy street, her stare calculating and careful, she might look a total mess but her mind was entirely clear.

The cars of the rich growled past beyond the pavement, the chauffeurs immaculately dressed, their occupants showing little interest in what sat beyond their windows. Between them and her, people go back and fourth throughout her vision yet they too do not notice ragged young woman crouching just beyond the point in this alley the day light reaches.

She's done this before on many an occasion, but like every single time she has no idea if it'll play out right. The girls she spent last night under a bridge has been shocked when she mentioned her 'methods' but then again, they made money in an entirely different way, one that involved winks and propositions to the lowest of the low. She hadn't sunk that far yet and there would be a fight before she would.

Still as they'd sat quietly around a brazier they'd listened intently, she guessed she'd go back tonight since they'd seemed nice enough, it beat sleeping in a doorway anyhow for at least you had somebody warm to push up against, on frigid nights personal space became a non issue that was one of the first lessons of survival.

Despite all talk in the land of reaching out to citizens and better lives, those like Eponine who found themselves homeless faced a bleak life of hunger and disdain from just about everyone else.

She'd seen it enough times in the months she'd been living on the street proper, nobody wanted to look her in the eye or acknowledge her. A few kind souls gave her sorrowful glances and an even smaller number amongst them would pass a few Francs her way, yet even as they did she saw their fear and hasty retreats and it spoke volumes.

She looked around once more; today will be no exception she imagines.

She stands slowly and cautiously makes her way to the alleys entrance, into view of the crowds. It's still chilly and the slight wind does nothing to help. Her coat and hat offer modest protection at best, still it's not as bad as it was at three in the morning when it snowed back in January that was just vicious, so vicious in fact that a couple of people she'd known hadn't come through those nights, still in the reality of this life you didn't have time to think on it.

She looks around trying to be as inconspicuous as possible; she knows the rules of this particular game well. No eye-contact that's the first thing, secondly no sudden jerky movements that catch in people's peripheral vision and make them look. Thirdly, the most difficult, look like you've got nothing to hide. Her 'beloved' father taught her these things years ago and now they're like second nature.

She scowls at the thought of her father, there's one man she really hopes not to see out here. It's unlikely though, he wouldn't dare show his face in this part of town during the day, he's not like Eponine who can blend in when she wants to and make herself look like a harmless tramp ripe for being ignored. He most definitely sticks out in his gangly mutton-chopped glory.

Still, perhaps he had some things right, following his advice has managed to get her enough money to not yet have starved to death.

She pushes her eye's downwards, resting them on the pavement; this is another of his tricks. "Look at they're shoes is what you gotta' do" he'd said to her fourteen year old counterpart, it worked the majority of the time.

You could tell a fair amount by people's shoes, wealthier men wore nice well polished footwear while poorer men's bore scuffs and obvious wear and tear. "You has to look for those with shiny shoes" his creeping voice says again. She hates the fact she has to take into account anything that man ever told her, but she has to eat too.

The advantage of foot hunting of course is that she could do it while appearing to all intents and purposes to be staring vacantly at the ground and nothing more.

She stands stock still watching and commences, no this man's old boots souls are coming away, he's no good. This man has potential but he's walking too fast, if she strides to match his pace it'll look instantly suspicious.

Her targets are nearly always men, their wallets are conveniently placed in trouser pockets usually, women worth targeting by en-large carry their purses in handbags which while snatching can reap high rewards, is almost impossible to do without alerting them instantly and having them yell or scream, that's a one way ticket to being seen by a large number of people and a police cell.

She's yet to be caught by the police and doesn't fancy the idea of prison much, some of the other homeless people she knows have, a couple even claim it's better than the streets as you get a basic standard of food and bedding. She wonders how desperate someone would have to be to willingly get them arrested, however desperate it is. She's not gotten there yet.

Man on a bicycle, no good. Too many people passing all at once, someone will notice. She has to wait several minutes for their ranks to thin out again. Two men with shiny shoes, there's no way one of them won't notice, they've got to be on their own if things are to go smoothly. No not this man, his shoes are battered and dirt encrusted.

The game of cat and mouse can be a long one, you have to stalk and make split second decisions, like a Heron in a fish pond, long periods of standing still and then one quick movement to finish it.

Minutes tick by, a man's shoes appear only feet away as he approaches, they're shiny black leather and the bottoms of his trousers suggest fine quality, his pace is relaxed she can easily match it. She looks up casually, she only sees him for a brief second, it can't look like she's observing him specifically.

He's got grey hair poking out from under his fedora, he wears a nicely cut pin-striped suit, he's not poor, he's her man.

Normally, she'd stroll up behind him and simply slip her hand into his pocket for a fraction of a second and take what she can get before getting gone. Today is no exception. As lucidly as possible she slips out into the stream of people. He's a few paces ahead of her but she's nimble and treads with a light foot.

Within seconds she's right behind him, shadowing his step. She can smell his cologne and hair oil she's so close, it's harsh and unpleasant although she's sure she smells worse. With quick observations she can see it's his left hand trouser pocket has the square like bulge of a wallet. The rest is all well rehearsed.

Her hand slips downwards fast but gentle, being malnourished has given her small bony hands and thin wrists, she never imagined it would give her any advantages but life is full of ironies. Her fingers slip into the warm recess of his pocket, she's nearly there, he doesn't seem to notice, she holds her breath and the slightly sweaty tips of her digits scrape the wallets leather surface.

Her heart is now hammering in her chest, she doesn't dare breath, she clasps the wallet and gently, oh so gently teases it out, it comes free without a problem, she feels the cold air envelope her hand once more as it exits the pocket, the whole affair has lasted less than 10 seconds, she's done it.

Until suddenly the man's hand slips down unthinkingly, probably to investigate the sudden weight change in his pocket, this is entirely normal and she's usually already melted back into the crowd. But this gentleman does it seconds earlier than she's expecting.

She's not had time to pull her hand away properly, his skin touches hers, her blood turns to ice as he whips around, his dark eye's pierce her, he understands instantly and wastes no time, his hand snaps out like a striking snake and grabs her wrist before twisting it violently, she nearly screams.

"Thief!" the man cries and everyone around turns to look, she's been caught red-handed with the man's wallet still clutched by her, her guilt is beyond doubt.

Somebody else, a woman's voice she doesn't recognise shouts "someone fetch the police!" Her heart just about stops beating, it's obvious she's ragged, streaked with dirt and wretched, but it doesn't matter, she'll just be a common criminal.

"I'm sorry sir!" she blurts desperately, "I'm starving…" but the man won't hear it and his free hand belts her hard across the face "shut up you little hussy" he hisses "you could be the hungriest person alive but that doesn't give you the right to rob me.."

Her cheek smarts, she can taste blood in her mouth which tells her she must've bitten the inside of her cheek inadvertently and perhaps most humiliating she can feel tears welling up alongside the cold despair.

Shouts all around get angrier, they're jeering at her… it goes on and on too, seconds must have already become minutes at some point, "I'm going to make sure you go down for this you little rat" the man hisses now. He's genuinely livid to the point the veins in his neck have popped.

"I…" she stammered, there's nothing she can force out.

"Hit the girl again!" comes another voice from their audience, several people cry in agreement and others laugh. Her eyes widen, her humiliation is complete. "Please sir… I'm sorry" she begs and she hates how pathetic and powerless she's been rendered. He just eye's her indifferently before saying through gritted teeth "only because you got caught" and then he does strike her again.

This time she feels blood surrounding her tongue and swishing around her lower jaw, she'll have black and blue face no doubt. She can't hold it, her mouth opens and blood begins to gurgle down her jaw. Several people in the crowd make disgusted sounds, her head bows and the tears flow, the man's grip tightens his nails despite being cut shot dig into her skin.

She hears the sound of somebody approaching, behind her, heavy confident steps, it's got to be a policeman, she doesn't look up until the voice of another man says in a tone of entirely genuine sounding exasperation "oh really Josephine! What trouble have you been getting into now?"

Everybody, herself included, looks around sharply, suddenly it's just the cars going by that make the sound around them and she's sure they're going slower than they were before all this, probably drivers slowing to take their own look at a free piece of drama.

The newcomer is not a policeman, he's a stranger and her eye's go as wide as saucers as he entirely confidently approaches and puts his hand on her shoulder. He's a young man, perhaps a little older than her, he's not particularly tall but it doesn't seem to bother him, his medium length brown hair is slicked up slightly and he has a distinctive face of freckles. He's dressed in a fairly simple but well cut suit he looks at her with one expression she had never expected to see now, sympathy.

"Don't look at me like that or pretend you don't recognise your own brother" he says looking into her eyes with a layered smile. She has to do her best to stop her jaw from dropping.

Who is this man? Whoever he is, he's no longer looking at her but now straight into the eyes of her victim come captor. "I'm sorry Monsieur, what did she do to you?"

The older man looks as taken aback at her 'brother' "this young urm… woman tried to pickpocket my wallet" to further emphasize this point, as if it really needed it she thrust her now slightly purple shaded hand that still clasped the wallet in his direction.

The newcomer nodded and sighed "honestly 'Sphine I know you're upset about mother but this is 'not' the way to deal with it…" Eponine is speechless, is this man toying with her? And if he's not what the hell 'is' he doing by trying to help her? What can he possibly be hoping to achieve?

"My greatest apologies Monsieur, I can appreciate how insulting it must be but you see our mother has recently fallen ill and well…" he looked down and Eponine had to admit, had she been a bystander with no idea that everything he was saying was entirely false, she would've probably believed him too. Whoever taught him to act deserved whatever fee they'd charged and more…

The older man just regarded him apparently unsure what to make of this new development. The young man continued "But I'm afraid it's had quite an impact on poor Josephine here, her and mother have always been incredibly close and she was just looking to save a life" it's his eye's that really clinch it, the understanding and sympathy yet hint of disapproval all make perfectly to throw the older man off his bearings.

She catches the younger man's eyes for a second as he looks to her, their grey stare spoke volumes, he was pleading with her to play along with him and honestly how could she not? She understands, she doesn't know why but he really is trying to help her, it was time to start a bit of acting herself and so she tried to push the waterworks a bit further, it wasn't a difficult thing to do considering and nods along with the young man's words.

The older man looked down to her and she tries to look as sincere as possible as she whispers meekly "it's true…"

The older man's eye's flashed between them for another second, did something soften in his eye's for a second? Yes, he's becoming unsure of what to do now, but not enough yet. "That's as may be" the man said and she could instantly tell his anger had ebbed away but in its place suspicion had taken root "but no matter what the intent there is no excuse for what she's done to me and I do intend to press charges."

Her apparent saviour sighed a heavy sigh, one that perfectly encapsulated a remorseful sibling "I understand that entirely Monsieur, if our positions were swapped I would be angry too and please don't for one minute believe I'm attempting to defend her actions but" and with that he reached into his pocket and presented a wallet of his own.

Eponine's stomach dropped all over again… oh no… this wasn't happening, why on Earth would a complete stranger go that far? Perhaps she could believe he was kind enough to try and talk her out of it, but buy her freedom? She couldn't let him spend his money on her; she might be a homeless pickpocket who looked like she'd gone for a swim in a pigsty and now could add immaculate blood stains to that look but she still had some semblance of pride.

She shot the young man a pleading look and only received one of question in return before his attention was again lost to the older man "I will be quite happy to compensate you privately here and now if you let her go and promise to drop all charges."

The old man looked him up and down, Eponine could see the cogs in his head working, he wasn't sure if this man was serious, Eponine herself could tell he was entirely and her humiliation was complete. "And you think bribing me will make this all go away?" her captor hissed, Eponine was tempted out of sheer bloody mindedness that came from her bolshie side to speak up in agreement but knew she couldn't.

"Well you could call it a bribe Monsieur but I can't help but notice that my sister happens to have rapidly forming bruises and is quite obviously bleeding, neither of which was the case when she left home this morning."

The young man spoke deadpan, his eye's never leaving his adversaries who stood silently holding a poker face that she could see through, it was the twitch in his cheek that did for him for it was a twinge of fear, all three could see where this was going and the young man took no time at all to twist the proverbial knife.

"Which can only lead me to the conclusion that you Monsieur are the cause of those, in fact I know that to be the case because I and everyone standing here saw you strike her not once but twice while you had her constrained and she made no attempt to hurt you first. So while I suppose you might call my peace offering a bribe, I could just as validly describe your 'punishment' of my unarmed sister as 'assault.'"

It was the way the young man's eye's flashed as he said it, his voice dropping to a brooding tone that changed the atmosphere all around. Suddenly he seemed to tower over her would be victim, she hadn't noticed until then that he was indeed taller by a good few inches and the look of slightly grim vindication that he held seemed to empower him, she'd changed her mind he wasn't an idiot, he was impressive.

It certainly worked for suddenly she felt the pressure on her wrist slacken, the older man said nothing and his expression of realization said everything. The young man just nodded, opened his wallet and much to Eponine's horror presented not coins but notes as he said far more briskly than his previously doubled edged politeness "would I be right that 300 Francs will be enough to let things be?" The folded notes rested gently between his outstretched fingers.

The old man's grip finally fell entirely, she was free and her arm dropped limply to her side, the man's wallet which she'd still been clasping fell from her fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud and the jingle of coins. The old man quickly scooped it up "yes I think that will be just fine 'Monsieur'" he said hastily taking the young man's money, shooting Eponine one final venomous look from under bushy eyebrows before he turned and vanished into the now once again moving crowd. He was gone within seconds.

Eponine blankly stared at the floor once again, wanting to see anything but people's shoes. She didn't look up at her saviour but she knew he stood observing her before he had to ask that one question, that most idiotic of all questions the one the answer to was entirely obvious, "Are you okay mademoiselle?"

That was it Eponine had spun on her heels, her coat whipping up with the sudden motion, this man was a grade A moron, what had possessed him? She had no idea. She didn't care either, whatever it was be it him trying to save his mortal soul or hoping for a brief session in an alley she had no intention of hanging around.

That had been until she'd looked him in the eye, she'd been sure she'd see expectancy of some description but what she saw was concern, she didn't need to answer, just looking at him he took as answer enough. "I'm sorry I couldn't step in sooner and also if I embarrassed you."

Her anger drained away she just looked down again and said nothing, awkward silence took root until after some moments she just said faintly "why?"

He didn't hesitate to answer her with an assured nod, "because he was hurting you and I doubt he would've missed that wallet in the long run."

Well that hadn't been what she'd expected at all "and won't you miss your 300 francs too 'Monsieur'?" she says slightly coarsely, she's not got the tenacity to be full on sarcastic to him just yet considering but she's to conflicted to be nice as she probably should be considering, really she just wants him to go away his attention makes her uncomfortable.

He calls her bluff "only if don't let me give you something too", she felt mortified, this man 'was' insane? He was actually now trying to give her money too? What on earth was his game?

"And why would you want to do such a thing for an urchin like me?"

"Because you need it more than me" he said again simply and presented another wad of folded Francs.

Eponine eyed it a part of her screamed at her to just take it and go while another perhaps older part of her cautiously whispered that it wasn't right. She shook her head and the man sighed she could see disappointment ebbing over his features, for some reason it twisted her insides for a moment she wasn't sure why and then it became clear. In all this she hadn't seen a single look of judgement towards her from him and that was a first for a long time from anybody who didn't share her lowly position.

Defeated by a look, she doesn't know this man at all and she doesn't know why she's hesitant to his playing the Good Samaritan, still even as she reached out and took the Francs with a small "merci Monsieur." She isn't ungrateful, not at all, she's just completely flummoxed.

All such feelings vanish as soon as she sees the money, a greedy self serving urge over takes her. What had she been thinking trying to refuse? If she had any real street sense she'd be trying to extort more… She then freezes; there must be 200 Francs in her hand…

He seemed satisfied as she, still wide eyed, tucked the money into her blouse for he smiled again, silence fell once more. After a moment he scratched his head and said "one final word, I'd see a doctor if I were you, hope you have a better rest of today Mademoiselle" and to her surprise just like that he began to walk away.

She stood alone for a second in spot, nobodies paying attention to her any more, everybody who stopped to play spectator has since moved off about their business of the day. The thoughts occurring to her are definitely from the wrong side of her mind, the side her father would've approved of, cynical and scheming. She turns and sees the man who helped her now some meters away down the street.

An idea occurs to her, she might have been shaken but she's a Thenardier and if that means one thing it means the ability to turn situations around in the blink of an eye. Her mind is made up 'let's see where this goes' she thinks as she begins to hurry after the young man. "Excuse me Monsieur!" she calls making her voice as conflicted sounding as possible so as to appeal to his apparent generosity.

He turns and stops, his face still holding a pleasant smile "is something else wrong Mademoiselle?" he asks with complete patience, he's even smiling again, perhaps this will be easy.

Her voice will decide what happens now, she knows it, her old ways of thinking are back and this time she knows how to play it. "Yes, Monsieur" she says, one hint of rudeness now and she's killed it "it's just" she begins far more demurely than she would normally consider "wealthy folk like you don't just give money to people like me" she paused there now attempting to play up the very thing that had shamed her not moments ago, perhaps she really did have no pride after all? However this was as much to scratch the itch of curiosity as it was anything else "and I was wondering what gives?" she finished.

She was expecting some waffle about charity which she could use to twist his arm into giving her more. But no all he gives is a look and it's of guilt. That was what she saw, guilt, and furthermore it wasn't aimed at her, she could tell by the faraway nature his stare takes on. She's seen it enough on others contemplating past events that shaped their lives. This was interesting, but what perhaps was even more interesting was that he'd then said with complete earnest "why don't you walk with me?"

She'd had to cram her look of surprise back in equal parts to stop him seeing and to prevent half her face from smarting even worse than it already did. To say today was turning stranger by the minute was an understatement, but this boy had been such a gentleman that she didn't feel any reason to be suspicious of his motives and so she decided to ride the train and see where it took her. What was the worst that could happen he gave her no more?

Still, a little play wouldn't hurt, she fixed him with a questioning look, one that held subtle implications behind it and was designed to draw him in "alright Monsieur" she said after a deliberately considered pause, before she diverted her eye's in a show of apparent shyness. It was a ruse to convince him to answer he next question "but I don't know your name Monsieur?" Find that out and she could make their interactions more personal and that could make a lot of difference.

He let out a soft chuckle and nodded "but of course, it's Marius Pontmercy." Eponine just looked at him trying it out, 'Marius? It suits him' she nodded and took his outstretched hand gently, he showed no sign of repulsion at her dirty state and she looked at him expectantly, it was after all his idea and they were off heading northwards towards the Seine.

After walking for a couple of minutes in a strange silence Marius had spoken again, "Mademoiselle you tease me." Eponine looked at him curiously, for a moment she feared she'd offended him and blown her chances but when she looked up saw he grinned. "I don't know your name either" he paused and his grin got wider "unless you're telling me I managed to guess it in one go... " he countered and she realized he'd been waiting for her to return the favour, she blushed and it perturbed her slightly but worse than that she wanted to laugh, what was up with that?

"It's Eponine" she'd said all intents gone from her mind for a moment "Eponine Thenardier" and he'd smiled even brighter. "Eponine? That's an unusual name" he'd said before he began nodding as if mulling it over. "well then, Eponine why don't we go somewhere a bit quieter to talk?" The heat in her cheeks became more pronounced out of nowhere. "That sounds good" she'd said trying to hide her fluster, the last twenty minutes had easily been the strangest for her in a long time.

* * *

That's enough for her. Flurries of faded blue sheets get tossed aside as she rises with a jerk, now firmly back in the present. The rush of light-headedness that comes from sitting up too fast sets in and she has to again run her hand over her eyes, this is something that's only started affecting her since then. In her former life a human equivalent of cat-napping and being able to up and alert within moments had been the norm.

Hence she tries to ignore the persistent feeling and swings her bare legs the edge of the bed feeling her toes click as they make contact with the cold wooden floor.

Her mind is still on Marius, she feels guilty now herself at her motives for initially pursuing him after his kindness. It's a matter long since settled but it still has the power to shame her if she thinks on it like now, it's the type of shame that claws and makes one cringe horribly. She forces the memory aside; it's a matter that's dead to all except her conscious.

The room around her is bare; she doesn't exactly own much, all the furniture she has was already here when she moved in. She'd never had her own mirror before now, just one on a wall that everybody used back home.

Her personal effects consist only of a few odds and ends which are mostly, if not all out of sight. She likes them that way, in part because some of them still hold the significant ability to hurt her. Her eyes catch on the wardrobe for a second; it only houses a few items of clothing in it and most of the garments it does house she never wears.

The clothes she does aren't so neatly kept; this fact is proven by the way her scuffed and well worn boots are laying several feet apart where they landed as she kicked them off the night before.

It's further evidenced by the way the trench coat that her father had presented her with some years earlier as part of a scheme he was running, that she's almost certain he stole, is crumpled over the back of the chair to the desk she never uses. It's the only item of clothing she still has from her previous life although it's somewhat cleaner now.

On the desk the closest thing she has to a favourite dress, for it's the one she usually wears to work is strewn across, still where it also found itself after she pulled it off in the dark in the early hours and chucked it blearily aside. It's only a matter of time before she dons them again.

For now though she observes herself in the mirror while she stretches. Her usual bad case of bed hair will take some vigorous brushing to get back under control, the lilac cotton nightgown that had belonged to Mademoiselle Chevrolet and most likely not been worn in decades before the landlady had gifted it to her is far too big, so big in fact she is sure that if she tried she could get lost inside it's cavernous folds.

It doesn't really look becoming either. She blushes at the thought of Marius seeing her in it. But then again, to think of herself in such terms is entirely new. When she arrived she'd been gaunt, tired and probably quite a sight, yet Marius had seen through it, surely it was the case that either way that anything was an improvement or that he didn't care so much?

Still, it's undeniable that just over half a year of being able to look after herself properly has physically made quite a difference. Her hair now has a sheen to it she couldn't remember having seen before, her teeth have whitened significantly since she'd been introduced to the wonders of baking soda and this wasn't to mention the biggest difference, the fact her figure is now no longer boyish but most definitely a woman's.

Still, her old perceptions of herself remain, in her head these superficial changes are not matched and she still to a large extent is the downtrodden teenager from a time gone by.

That thought knocks her confidence a bit and as she moves away from the mirror with a soft step she tries to push Marius from her mind for a moment and heads towards the window. Softly pulling the curtain aside she peers out, what she sees can be summed up in one word, grim.

It's dark for a start, the type of dark where mid afternoon can be mistaken for twilight and she can hear the wind whistling through the cracks in the rotting frame. Her window looks out over a small courtyard set in-between the back of the line of houses of which this building is a part and the one on the street behind.

Nothing about the view could be described as nice by many. A few old rust streaked metal bins, clothes lines that criss-cross this way and that made from battered rope that whips about in today's weather all framed by the shadows of it's high confines. Even in the high summer when the sun shone down and made even the nastiest places look slightly more appealing, Eponine hadn't felt any urge to venture out there.

She stands for sometime silhouetted behind her curtains, ostensibly watching the grand show of absolutely nothing that's happening beyond the glass but her mind isn't processing what her eyes are seeing, in her mind she's attempting a retreat from the fear of later and sits in a garden.

It's an odd daydream she has now and then and although it's always the same without fail it pleases her. She stands on a lawn. It's a little overgrown and lacks the highly maintained formal feel of the only real gardens she's been to such as the Jardin du Luxembourg or Tuileries.

By contrast, this garden is slightly wild; the trees grow thick and high around the edges of the vast expanse of grass. There are no paths and only birdsong and the faint trickle of moving water can be heard. The grass tickles her bare feet and pokes between her toes, she relishes it. In the distance straight ahead the evergreens look suddenly inviting and she begins to head towards them with no hesitance.

In this place she's alone, completely and entirely. For once though it doesn't bother her, in reality it hurts but here it doesn't seem to matter, in this place other people don't seem to exist so nether does expectation or reason to long for company.

If she could, she'd indulge this fantasy for hours at a time as it's just easier, she's sure it's not healthy but then an over-active imagination has been a part of her for a long time and for most of that it's been her only escape. Now sadly she's aware it's becoming more of a curse than a blessing and gets in her way.

Now is a good example she realizes, for if things are to have a chance of going right today she needs to get a move on. Nerves twang again under her stomach at that thought and it annoys her this time, why would she be nervous about this of all things? On the grand scale of things in comparison to some of the things she's done before this shouldn't in theory be difficult.

All ways, before anything can happen she needs to get to work and standing here glassy eyed and distracted by internal arguments won't help anyone.

She makes her way to the cramped bathroom which as it happens is next door. It's great for the days when has to go on the early shift and gets up still half asleep, stumbling and unable to think straight, where to go involves no thought at all. It's not quite so great when somebody else goes in there though since the walls offer about as much protection from noise as them not existing at all.

She finds the door ajar; at this time of day Mademoiselle Chevrolet is probably either at the market or some such place while the other tenants? She doesn't actually know for she's never really exchanged anything more than pleasantries and introductions with them, neither she nor them are around enough to do any more.

She likes it that way, at 'home' as she calls it for lack of a better term people come and go faster than her share of cake on the rare occasions Mademoiselle Chevrolet splashes out and brings one back to share, the thought of cake makes her stomach rumble.

Entering the bathroom she notices that someone hasn't cleared up properly after themselves, the floor around the tub resembles a boating lake and the windows are still smeared with condensation, it's nothing unusual, Mademoiselle Chevrolet would go mad but mess is nothing to Eponine.

The routine she sets about is now well engrained, she realizes hasn't the time to heat up a bath but that's okay because she had one yesterday, just a wash will do. It's a choice she almost regrets when she remembers the hard way that the water which comes out of the tap feels like it's been pumped straight from the Arctic ocean.

Her teeth grit but she won't complain, just merely get on with scrubbing the vanilla scented soap bar up and down herself and splashing it off with staggered breaths. What doing this will be like in midwinter she doesn't want to think about, but then again washing at all had been a once or if lucky twice a week thing at home and an unknown on the streets, this was still up on that.

When she's done she doesn't actually feel that cold although the shivers she has tell a different story, quickly wraps herself in one of the threadbare towels that hangs on the back of the door and gets about brushing her hair wincing as she catches the inevitable tangles one by one. Its hat weather today but she goes to extra effort to make her hair look presentable, nothing less will do.

She dries herself off as quickly as possible and returns to her room. What to wear? It's not a hard choice. Unlike the beautiful well off women she sees on her travels around town, she can't afford the long skirted dresses, fur trimmed shin length coats or fancy often feather trimmed hats they prance around looking glamorous in or model while sitting in the warm light of trendy cafes that serve coffee from those new fancy machines that brew it without hands while smoking expensive cigarettes and discussing whose cheating on who and what they'll be wearing 'next season'.

On top of that, she's often thought the seemingly mandatory white gloves the majority of them wear year in year out as if part of some strange Parisian dress code nobody ever thought to inform her of would just be plain annoying.

No, for Eponine it's the clothes she saw earlier and considering the cold from the water lingers on her even if she's now dry, she can't get into them quickly enough.

She's sure Coco Chanel would require smelling salts if she caught site of her right now, but that image amuses Eponine more than anything else.

Her dress is plain and simple but does everything she needs it to do and it's not like she's attempting to turn heads, or at least… she feels fear pang again, Marius has already noticed her she tells herself, how could he not have? Still, whatever happens later will happen.

She checks the watch, it's still too early to leave by a good half an hour and so she sits quietly in her chair mulling over her plan, pausing only when she hears the faint sound of the front door and Mademoiselle Chevrolet's voice from downstairs, who she's talking to she doesn't know and right now she doesn't really care to find out.

Her plan, it's been weeks in the making and it came to life last week. It was simple really; she'd sat down and written to Marius asking him to visit her at work tonight. That in itself wasn't something new, he'd dropped in for a drink many times while she was on shift and she'd take a break if possible to sit and chat with him.

Within a couple of days he'd written back telling her he'd thought it was a great idea and that he'd come straight over to the bar she works in between nine and nine thirty, her heart had fluttered when he'd written at the bottom how he looked forward to seeing her.

The letter is safely tucked away in her desk draw, the only thing in there. She has to stop herself from getting it out and reading it again, no matter how tempting it is to sit and lovingly trace the print with her fingers, she hasn't the time.

Still he'll get a surprise, for tonight she's arranged to finish early in exchange for a late shift next week, it's just lucky Marie was prepared to swap with her and that her boss Monsieur Palomer doesn't care whose on when as long as the place runs smoothly. But it means when Marius arrives she'll have him all to herself.

She grins devilishly for a second at the thought, she's not decided what she'll propose they do but anything is fine with her, she's the first to admit she's hardly high maintenance. Still whatever they do, tonight she'll tell him how she feels; it's been unsaid for too long even if the thought scares her half to death no matter how ironic.

Tonight is the night. She could've done without the rain but it's not the end of the world. She goes over the plan one more time for self assurance.

She has to go in earlier than normal and it'll be busy when she does. She imagines it'll take her about half an hour to get there on foot opposed to the normal twenty minutes with crowds considered, she debates for a moment coughing up and taking the metro but decides it's not really worth it, between rent and food she has little of her earnings to keep for herself and an overwhelming compulsion to save what little she does have.

That was in no small part where she believes her parents went wrong.

The Popular Front Government that had ruled for a year between 'thirty six and seven might have come to power with good intentions, if you were an industrial worker then you did have more in your pocket now or so she'd been told anyway, but in the brief time they'd been in power they'd concentrated their efforts on in-fighting rather than anything productive. Hell they hadn't even given women the vote and so people like Eponine still resided well and truly between the cracks making do with what little they had which in her case these days was more than many.

She looks bitterly across the room, she's gone on a tangent here although considering who this is all about, perhaps politics isn't such an irrelevant subject, although definitely not one it'll do well for her to mention later. That won't be difficult for it's not a subject Eponine's ever had time to put much thought into. Still, Marius has made clear to her he has several painful and conflicting issues in regards to this particular subject, kicking the wasp next is not advised.

She hears the landlady on the stairs their voices carry and while she can't hear their words, she can make out the usual extroverted tone in the middle aged woman's voice which tells Eponine that some poor soul is being given an all out conversational offensive. She pities them slightly.

Still it's a reality check and she goes back to the plan. Once she's got to work she'll be on shift until ten and that's when the games would begin. She contemplates what she'll say, she's aware her heart rate has sped up slightly, it's uncomfortable. Around her the silence seems to get deeper, she's known fear before plenty of times in some variation or another but this type is oddly one of the worst she can remember.

_"What happens if this goes badly?" _a voice in her head says.

"_It won't be the end of the world" _she thinks slightly more rationally, it's true it won't be.

"_But it would hurt"_ says the first voice again and it's entirely true, but once more so is the response _"that wouldn't be anything new though._"

This process is all too familiar, it happens a lot when she broaches big matters for the first time. As much as a confident demeanour is as integral to her visible personality as the Eiffel Tower is to the international image of her home city, it is merely one aspect of something much bigger and more complicated when seen beyond.

Eponine actually often finds herself trapped beneath the surface of a strange cocktail of hopelessness, self loathing mixed with her juxtaposed deep rooted will for a better life. That in part accounts for her nerves, if tonight goes well she dares to hope, it might be the start of something better with him, she's sure he can make it so for he already has.

"_But it might not go badly anyway, who knows? That's why you're doing it, to find out."_

It isn't much comfort for as she tries not to look at the vast number of negatives about her situation she can think up, which each in their turn make her feel not only dispirited, but also slightly ridiculous. This is what dominates her mind for another good twenty minutes, a part of her just wants to up and go in an attempt to shut her mind up.

She's vaguely aware that it sounds like somebody next door is preparing a bath. The sound water being poured into the tub is like no other she hears regularly, she just hopes it's not Monsieur Dubois who lives in the room downstairs next to the kitchen. His habit of singing terribly while he bathes is grating at the best of times, it's really the last thing she needs to hear now.

When she hears the persons footsteps retreating away down the hall, it appears now would be a good time to make her exit.

Quickly she stands pushing doubt from the front of her mind, until 10pm she'll focus on where she is and what she's doing like she always does if just to avoid going insane, although it's true that in Paris when out and about it doesn't do not to have your wits about you.

One final check out the window tells her she's probably not going to enjoy her walk much. Her boots are pulled on over the only pair of woollen socks she owns and after fighting the stiff twisted laces into bows, her coat and cap are donned in well practised motions.

Looking in her mirror one final time she sees herself plain. Thanks to the coat her features are lost under a veil of slight androgyny, the majority of her hair his hidden under the hat although that's mainly to stop it getting wet and matted. The coat however removes all hints of her body shape; she knows she could easily pass for a boy if not seen up close.

It's perhaps not the best look for her plan she realizes but she has little choice, and still, Marius has seen them before anyway, she shouldn't worry.

On the plus, looking like this can be helpful, she knows that well. There's usually some drunk or just general lowlife out and about willing to heckle or approach an unescorted young woman at any hour. She's not at all afraid of the possibility, it's happened enough times for her to know how to ignore or if needs be deflect such unwanted attention, but the bother of it is something she can always do without.

Finally satisfied she's got everything she pauses, takes several deep breaths and nods. It's time to do this, now or never and never is an option she wouldn't be able to forgive herself for taking. She makes for the door.

It's getting dark outside and in this corridor it's usually as dark as night at midday, she strides into the sudden gloom her mind well and truly set on what's to come. She can't see a thing and doesn't get more than a few steps before she gets the shock of her life.

With a sudden wallop she slams straight into something in her path and feels everything inside her turn over with fright. Whatever or perhaps more relevantly, whoever she's walked into for they're soft in a fleshy way and warm too, grunts upon impact.

The shock blanks her mind and before she's even quite aware what's happened her footing goes and she feels her backside make sharp contact with the cold hard floor. Pain springs through her and she winces knowing that'll translate into bruising soon enough.

"Ow shit" she hisses wildly, eye's springing upwards to observe this mystery. She's ready to give whichever fool of a house mate who apparently has no concept of spatial awareness a piece of her mind in no uncertain terms, but what she sees throws her, again.

He's a complete stranger; she's never seen him around here before in her life that's for sure, his face isn't one she'd forget. He's young, around her age or only a couple of years older by guess, his clothes are nice but obviously wet for they're sticking to him and of course it's impossible not to notice that he's handsome.

She observes him for a second simply taking in what she sees before her. In fact she decides, he might as well have been the definition of a 'pretty boy.' Or at least, he would've if he didn't look half crazed...

She's slightly alarmed to see his pale face is contorted into a scowl while his teeth are gritted. Yet weirder than that, his left arm out stretched while his right pulled in to his chest, she gets the distinct impression he's miming aiming a gun of some sort, all the while squatted backed up against the wall. It might have looked funny if it weren't for how deadly serious he looks, with that it's just a little unnerving. Why he would be doing such a thing she really doesn't know, it's certainly not a normal thing where she's from and she feels her confusion echoed in the way she looks at him.

Her chastising words die in her throat and silence falls between the two of them.

It's his eye's, they're what she sees that really unsettles her, they're bright blue, almost the same shade as the sky on a clear sunny day, except in them there's no sunshine to be seen at all. They're glazed and vacant; his stare though ostensibly at her, doesn't feel like it's really comprehending her but instead a point a thousand yards behind her.

It's only a couple of seconds at most that she observes this before he snaps to and she knows he sees her proper. She's met people like this before, odd people on the street with a past, it's why this doesn't frighten her but still she doesn't want to hang around here longer than needs be.

Recognition of the situation flashes across him; the change is almost instantaneous and shines through the dim light. It's as if a wall is built within a second, like a window shutter slams shut violently rebuking what was obvious only seconds before.

The enigmatic man stands properly and takes a more usual stance before he holds out a hand and says "do excuse me Mademoiselle."

His voice is quiet and collected, she thinks it seems fitting to his appearance. What does seem odd though is his accent is of the clear cut type she's more used to hearing in the posh ends of the city although it perhaps has a slight twang to it that she can't pin down.

She can't make up her mind if his words sound pretentious. But regardless she's quite capable of pulling herself up, which she does without any fuss. Her lower back is screaming but it's lower down where the really intense pain is, she might not care much for the observation of manors, but she certainly doesn't intend to start rubbing her butt in front of a strange man no matter how tempting.

"_Who the hell is he?"_ she thinks. Whoever he is, she's already decided she doesn't think much of him beyond wondering what his deal is. Even then it's not a question she'll lose sleep over she reckons. Even if there's something wrong with him he seems well enough to be left alone now, in fact he appears entirely calm and collected, the transformation is remarkable.

All ways she's got bigger things to worry about, tonight was going to be difficult all ways and he's just gone and made it just that little bit more stressful than it needed be…

She scoops up her cap and pulls it back on, he doesn't move, for a moment she guesses he's making his own set of observations about her.

He must be whoever Mademoiselle Chevrolet came in with half an hour ago or so, at least she assumes so since he's obviously been in the rain recently. That is, unless he got in the bath with all his clothes on?

While he seems a little odd that would be pushing it, or so she assumes anyway.

Still she grows more irritated when he doesn't move; all she really wants to do is be on her way. Introductions can be made another time when she's not got a specific plan to be following, if she's later in than she said she'd be there's no chance she'll get off early.

Her nails dig into her palms, she breaths out sharply through her nose in the same way she always does when annoyed, it's an effective weapon she finds and today apparently is no exception for he then has the decency to look sorry and steps aside.

"_About time"_ she thinks and it must've been obvious enough for he bows his head slightly and says "my apologies again" his tone is entirely sincere or at least it sounds it.

She has to pause despite herself to take a final look at him, there's nothing disingenuous about him she sees, he really is apologising.

She then feels a little ashamed for getting short with him; it took two to not be paying attention for it to happen after all. Her irritation melts away, she's sure she'll see him around again if he knows the landlady. Perhaps then she can ask what's up, purely because in an academic sense she is curious. But she has no will to chat right now and she strides past him but not before finally conceding something.

"Thanks and sorry too" she says quietly as she passes him, that ought to do and like him she does mean it she thinks as she strides down the stairs. Her mind lingers on what just happened as she strides across the empty hall and through the front door taking the plunge into the pouring rain.

Upon that rude awakening all thoughts of what just happened disappear, she merely closes the door behind her, steps down to the pavement and begins striding through the cold dusk pulling her coat tightly around herself thinking that Marius will make everything that's happened so far today better.

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**A/N: Hope you enjoyed, let me know what you think and hopefully see you all again soon :) **

**Yes as odd as it sounds coffee-makers were cutting edge technology in the 1930s.**

**In 1936 a left-wing coalition of parties including the Communists won the French elections but as with many historical Pre-war French governments did a better job arguing with each other than what they'd been elected to do and pretty much did nothing as a result, hence why they only lasted about a year.**

**Also, surprisingly women only got the right to vote in France in 1944 after liberation... I was a bit taken aback when I read that as I thought it would've been way earlier considering.  
**


	3. Action and Reflection

**So firstly apologies for taking so long to update, my workload has been horrible and I've been working on this in the small amount of free time I've had, hopefully it's worth the wait. (It's also slightly longer than usual if that helps!)  
**

**Thank you so much to everybody who reviewed the last chapter, your encouraging words have been great motivation!**

**Again I don't own Les Mis.**

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Chapter Three – Action and Reflection.

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Eponine's journey turns out much as she expected it. Within only a few minutes her coat is sodden to the point that all the rain droplets that continue to hit her run down the surface rather than soaking in.

Down below, her feet splash through the multitude of unnamed rivers that run across the pavements, feeding into the torrents that gush along the curbs of every street she walks down.

Starting in the backstreet's it'd been quiet out; the only signs of life had been lights shimmering in windows casting inverted shadows upon her as she passes. This emptiness only motivates her to walk faster and she doesn't see a single soul.

The street lamps flicker into life one by one as darkness proper begins to set; today the transition is exacerbated by the thick clouds.

She's been out in such conditions many times before, in fact the stormy nights on the street while being amongst the least comfortable - for all those whom formed the underclass homeless in Paris crowded into every single dry nook and cranny – they had ironically been the safest, for it also meant those whom preyed upon such people were less motivated to be out scouring for targets.

As are result she's pretty much impervious to it and doesn't complain, even to herself. She does try to keep her pace quick, she'll be seeing Marius soon and that's what matters.

She wonders what he'll be wearing, perhaps that grey pinstripe suit? The one that clings just a little bit tighter than he probably intends and gives her a good impression of… She feels the heat pooling in her cheeks; yes she hopes it'll be that one she decides devilishly.

But then again despite his tendency to dress down in comparison to many upper-class graduates, whatever he wears he never fails to look effortlessly dapper to her.

Her thoughts then drift over all the possibilities she sees before her, because in honesty it's either distract herself with such things or have a panic attack there and then, that's not a thing she ever wants to experience again.

Around her the humdrum of people begins to emerge and then proceed to grow more pronounced as she ventures into more central streets.

The crowds who appear almost out of nowhere she suddenly finds she has to push through after leaving the relative solitude of minor streets for madness of a major boulevard, are the usual eclectic mix.

Some are affluent looking businessmen in suits which by en-large today are topped belted coats of wool and cashmere. The majority of these men are also either holding undoubtedly work related cases low in vain attempts to keep them dry, or alternately their hands are clasped in the white gloved hands of the very type of immaculately dressed woman she was earlier thinking how little she resembles.

Seeing them only drives home how wide the gap between her and them is, if she ever had to titter in the way they do she'd likely choose never to speak again. This not to mention that the concept of acting demur in the way these walking china-dolls flaunt is one almost entirely beyond her.

Here and there though people of more her place in the world weave in and about, men in collarless shirts and threadbare coats that they hug to themselves while miserably failing to keep their cigarettes from becoming sodden.

Yet in greater number are women dressed not so dissimilarly to herself, simple dresses and several winters old coats, probably on one of their first outings this year, nearly all of them laden with canvas bags - undoubtedly holding the ingredients for that night's dinner or other purchases – in one hand while many in their other hands clasp those of children whilst holding looks that speak volumes of how they wished they were anywhere but here.

It's their children who by-enlarge seem to be the only group enjoying themselves.

One little boy she sees begins innocently kicking his way through several puddle ahead of her as she makes her way down a short section of the Rue de Rivoli. It makes her smile for a split second, she remembers the joy of such simple things from her own childhood and in turn she winces when the woman he's with, whom she presumes is his mother yells at him loudly for being 'naughty' and smacks him in front of everyone.

He was only exploring she thinks but of course she says nothing as she scurries by...

He also reminds her of Gavroche and the memory jogs her from her previous thrall to Marius. Her little brother would be what, 13 now? She wonders how he's doing? The last time she saw him or Azelma, her younger sister of three years who would now be approaching her 19th birthday. She feels the sudden flashing spark of separation anxiety, on the few moments they come to mind in these dramatically altered days of her life she feels how much she misses them with a stab.

Maybe when things are more settled, if things go well… maybe she can find them again? But it would mean 'they' might find her… she feels her muscles tense when that idea hits her with full force and her shivers are not from the cold for a few moments.

It doesn't do to get lost so deep in such thoughts.

She knows that and it's only re-proven to her within seconds as she nearly walks into somebody for a second time, this time it's not a man with behaviour that's somewhat unsettling, but a young woman whose mousey brown hair pokes out from under the faded red scarf it's wrapped in.

Awkwardly side stepping she looks up. "Sorry" says the woman with faint embarrassment and a wave of her hand before she melts away into the crowd again.

"_Least she was nice about it"_ thinks Eponine, the majority of people she's encountered in such a way before, a total she tries to keep to a minimum, haven't been.

Still, her thought train has been disrupted and she doesn't dwell further, it won't do her any good right now as she drinks in the atmosphere heavy with the smells of tobacco, traffic fumes and musk.

It's just Paris at dusk; it's always the same every day.

So as usual, the lines are beginning to form outside cinemas and theatres that spill into her path. Crowds of people waiting for a bus or attempting to cram in vast numbers through the doors to Metro stations threaten to force her off the pavement into the motion of the road itself.

The sounds of cars, of chatter, of laughter, footsteps and the wind running between the stonework of the grand buildings that line most Parisian boulevards. She's often thought the city holds a frenetic, almost ugly elegance. It's an opinion she's had plenty of time to form, the majority of her teenage years that weren't spent in school or fear were wasted on these very streets, her abilities to blend in, know and get to where she needs to be are second to none.

Navigating it all though, she reckons that should be a sport, forget the riches obsession with cycling or the poors with football, this she imagines is far more challenging than kicking a ball up and down a field surely…

She crosses the Seine on the Pont des Arts, the river roars in an unsettling tirade beneath the bridge, murky and brooding. She doesn't look down; the sheer volume of its noise is enough.

Instead she chooses to focus on what's in the distance, beyond the curve of the river to the south west. There the Eiffel Tower looms, lit up in the warm glow of bright electric lights which dazzle against the darkness. She's seen it millions of times before, practically every day in fact, but in these conditions it still has the power to catch and hold her eye.

Her watch tells her it's nearly 6 o'clock as she makes her way through the streets south of the rivers banks.

To an uneducated observer not much changes here. The impeccable lines of cafes, patisseries, boutiques selling all sorts of finery that costs more than she could make in a year are still present. But it's when one turns into the smaller inter connecting streets – or alleys might be a more correct definition – that cut through the blocks, the picture changes dramatically.

It's into one of these optimistically termed 'streets' in the Latin Quarter she turns silently.

Her eye's finally lifting from the ground where she's been holding them since the bridge, this area is closer to her old stomping grounds and a run in with the wrong familiar face could turn her day very bad in the blink of an eye.

On the bright side however, it's taken her slightly less time than she thought to get there, possibly because of the quick pace she tried to keep up in part out of nerves and another merely an attempt to keep warm.

The street is narrow, among the narrowest left in Paris although it's hardly unique. Smaller shop fronts line the road while, above her head, brightly painted wooden signs swing merrily in the driving wind.

There aren't many people about, but that's not surprising. The only people she sees are a couple of hardy souls with turned up coat lapels standing under a wine shops awning talking in hushed tones, the light from their cigarettes illuminating their features for a few seconds with each drag they take.

Eponine knows the fundamental rule is not to look even vaguely interested and keeps her eye's forward; they have a distinctly shifty quality about them. It's fortunately only a little way on that she gets to the door she's looking for.

On the outside the Chateau du Joie looks unassuming, a large window the frame of which like the door it's next to is painted black - although peeling in a few places - while in the window which offers little view of the inside sits a large blackboard clearly stating the names of the vineyards the house wines are from.

None of them mean anything to Eponine, she's just there to make sure the customer gets what they order, get herself paid as a result and use it to pay for food and shelter, nothing more.

Above the window the sign that boldly announces in fancy silver calligraphy, or at least as close to such as someone could ever achieve freehand with a paintbrush, announces the places existence and relatively uncreative name to any and all who pass and that's the extent of it.

Some might think it was plain for its lack of vibrant, often suggestive paintings or the absence of the neon lights so many similar establishments favour these days, Eponine however thinks it's a good thing. Those places usually have more than the eye can see going on, but once more, this place is definitely a case of what you see is what you get.

She loiters nervously for a few moments before mustering herself, it'll be some hours yet before she gets to talk to him, her chest swells slightly at the realization that the possibilities are now this close, all those weeks in the planning...

"_Don't mess this up 'Ponine"_ she thinks but at this point there's nothing for it, she'll just get on with her shift for now.

With a final deep gulp of air she strides through the door into a different world.

It's not dark at all in here, the series of old gas lamps converted to hold electrical bulbs line the walls give a homely glow, while in keeping with the exterior, the walls are panelled in a darkish wood in a general art deco style.

Despite glaring of almost twenty years ago, it still creates an inviting effect.

Her boots tread quickly across the floor of black and white criss-crossed tiles which she regards with some hatred, while looking nice, the number of times she's been the one to have to mop it has soured her opinion. That's definitely one of the less fun aspects of the job… well except cleaning the toilets; even with everything she's known in her life that task is still unpleasant.

Trying not to scowl from the thought in front of the patrons she pushes through noting it's the usual crowd tonight.

Mainly well to do students from the large university only a few streets away enjoying a drink with friends, they nearly always formed the largest part of the clientèle here, this bar was of course just one of many they often frequented she guessed, but there were nearly always some familiar faces.

Cigarette smoke hangs thick while the roar of talking amongst the customers, some of whom are already visibly intoxicated, nearly drowns out the jazz being played on the gramophone at the back, Eponine finds herself as with almost very night longing for it to be the other way around.

She pulls off her cap and stuffs it into her pocket as she slips around the end of the bar and through the entrance to the back room, being sure to let the door close behind her.

It's far simpler in here, a small table and chairs takes up most of the room, the walls are plain white tiles and the ceiling is plain wood, it's also virtually silent in here once the door is closed.

She hadn't even managed to take two steps when "Eponine!" cries an enthusiastic and all too familiar voice from the stool in the corner next to the coat stand, breaking the silence.

"_Oh rats…" _Eponine mentally hisses to herself. Perhaps being five minutes later wouldn't have been a bad choice?

She turns towards the source "evening" she says simply in an attempt to sound defusing.

It's just Edith with her usual bounciness.

Perhaps the most popular barmaid in the Latin Quarter, at least Eponine's sure there are plenty of men who would agree. She's Twenty Three and everything Eponine distinctly knows herself not to be. She's entirely self-confident, outgoing and in a word, gorgeous.

She's also grinning a grin that Eponine has learnt to be wary upon seeing. "A little bird named Marie tells me you asked to swap shifts tonight and that you were blushing furiously as you did so?"

Eponine's transition from resigned to flustered takes only seconds, she freezes on the spot. Edith had already figured out Eponine's attraction to the young man having seen them together only a couple of times. If she finds out about her and Marius's meeting tonight she'll inevitably never shut up about it for the rest of time, no matter how it works out.

"Yeah, I was…" Eponine's mind frantically claws for something believable that might explain her blush at the time, unfortunately the answer she spews out in her discomfort is in her opinion worse than the truth "having 'girl issues.'"

"_What the hell was that?" _

Fortunately it somehow does work though for Edith just gives her a quick glance of sympathy before dropping that subject.

Somewhat tragically though Eponine thinks, it doesn't kill the other young woman's interest in her. In fact it seems Edith has an extra elasticity tonight from the way she's bobbing up and down.

Eponine knows this probably means she's quietly helped herself to a couple of drinks, or been bought them by drunk flirty students, the fact the redhead makes no attempt to hide the impressive size of her breasts - the cleavage of which today is well displayed by the snug blouse she's purposely left unbuttoned at least two buttons lower than Eponine would ever feel comfortable with - serves her well in that regard.

The look on Edith's face tells Eponine she's got something else on her mind. Sure enough, she's off of her perch in a flurry of ginger locks and her white apron as she flies with alarming speed towards Eponine, grabs her wrist playfully although with an agility that startles, "Guess what!" she cries.

"You're drunk?" Eponine responds deadpan, too taken aback to do anything but attempt deflection. It doesn't work.  
Edith rolls her eyes at Eponine's response. "No!" she exclaims before pausing.

Edith has always been determined, ever since Eponine started working here in May to drag the young unwilling bohemian into her twirling apparently relentless world of jazz clubs, illicit drinking and young rich boys.

Eponine finds the thought fundamentally laughable and the only reason she doesn't resent it is because she knows Edith means no harm by it, they're just two very different clashing persona's.

"Well maybe a little but Monsieur Clovis has promised to take me out tonight after work!" Edith squeaks, now quivering on her tip toes.

Eponine merely goes blank, she has no idea who this man Edith speaks of is… he must easily be the tenth or even fifteenth she's mentioned since they met, the girl before her is the definition of a flirt and tease in one.

"Oh well I hope you have fun" says Eponine flatly, she knows where this is going and would rather just get ready and get on bar.

Edith isn't deterred in the least, Eponine wonders if she's even noticed her reticence for she leans in head cocked and whispers suggestively "and if I was to tell you he has a very handsome friend whose 'quite quite' charming and just happens to be alone tonight?"

"_Here we go again"_ Eponine thinks and her sigh is unsuppressed, honestly the number of times she's made it quite clear she's not interested in such things, not to mention Edith has a basic ability to fluster her.

"I'd have to say sorry I've got plans tonight" she says as she shifts entirely awkwardly, perhaps another, albeit crappy lie would've been preferable, Eponine's just not used to playfulness, or at least not a type that's not laced with a grim sub-tone, she's used to just saying what she thinks in a serious setting.

Eponine wishes for a second she could just retreat into invisibility until Edith got bored, but no such luck. At least for once though her excuse is true, or so she hopes, she still feels the embarrassment rising within her.

Edith of course won't let her leave it at that "oh really Eponine darling? Anything fun?" she asks it with such an innocence that on the surface wouldn't melt butter.

Her smile made up of equal parts curiosity and cheek though is the type that makes Eponine want to back away slowly.

Angry people she can deal with, idiots she can deflect and most people she is calm and collected with, but the overly personal and extroverted like Edith… they make her feel distinctly uncomfortable, they're from a whole different planet.

"Maybe" she manages a smile, she hopes it will be.

One of Edith's eyebrows lowers and a look dripping with innuendo takes hold of her. "It's that pretty boy you've been fawning after isn't it" she leans in audaciously with a knowing grin, Eponine tries not to blush but knows she's failed.

"_Eurgh since when did I end up like 'this' unable to say a word?"_ she wonders but all that she actually says is "um" falteringly and Edith is on her in a second.

"Aha! I knew it! What's his name again?" she says taking a step towards Eponine, the smugness in her voice rising.

"Ma… Marius" she just about gets out, she feeling her heart cartwheel.

"Marius! That's it!" Edith giggles far too loudly for Eponine's liking, she almost compulsively sticks her finger over her mouth in gesture but knows it would be pointless even if she did.

"So what are you a the good 'monsieur getting up to?'" it's strange Edith's gift to make even an innocent sentence so suggestive, although perhaps the way she wiggles her fingers in a mime of certain acts plays a part.

"We… urm…" says Eponine taking a step backwards and feeling the wall behind her, it's that moment her bruises from earlier make themselves apparent again and she tries to disguise her pained hiss.

How does Eponine tell her that there's no official plan as such? Edith won't understand, she's very much the have a plan of action type, a stark contrast to the 'I've actually never done this and haven't got a clue' position Eponine finds herself stuck in.

All ways Eponine doesn't want to talk about it but it's useless. "Waiting" Edith says slowly between grinning ruby lips that Eponine's sure she must've spent hours perfecting, her brow raised in expectation.

There's no dignified way out, Eponine's humiliation feels complete.

_"Kill me now."_

"I… urm… I'm not sure there's no official plan as such he's just coming here tonight and I urm…" she doesn't get to finish, she's to surprised at the apparent understanding is written all over Edith's face. But of course, it's of the wrong sort and soon replaced by a wicked grin.

"And you'll have your dastardly way with him and tomorrow have him begging for more" she says lewdly in a voice that Eponine knows is exaggerated and yet can't help wondering if she's actually used on people before… She pushes that thought from her mind as quickly as possible for she can feel the cringe already.

Eponine says nothing, there are simply no words. It turns out to be a double edged thing Edith backs away, although her look doesn't change. Eponine gets the feeling Edith's taken her silence as affirmation and that she won't be hearing the end of this right now…

She once again feels a compulsion to run and hide. A pungent silence falls for a few moments before the door swings open and Monsieur Palomer appears silhouetted in the frame.

He's a balding man of around forty or so and looks between the two of them for a second. "Evening Eponine" he says politely to her before clapping his hands together in Edith's direction "you're break ended five minutes ago Madam."

His manor would appear terse if one wasn't familiar with his generally good nature. Technically she and Edith could get the sack for leaving unstaffed. But they won't.

They're too good at attracting attention to be let go, although Eponine imagines Edith is largely responsible for that.

"Sorry darling but there was gossip to be had!" Edith winks as she saunters past, stopping quickly to kiss him on the cheek, pressing herself against his side for a brief second, Eponine's surprised she doesn't cop a feel too, she's done it to just about everybody else before with a further cheeky glance, disappears into the smoke and noise outside.

Eponine shares as a glance with him for a second, neither of them says anything, this is a common occurrence. Instead Eponine just says "ready in five" which seems to satisfy him for he nods approvingly and closes the door finally leaving her alone.

It's just as well for she needs to get cracking and while they've been talking the number of people wanting drinks will have inevitably built up. Edith she knows is most likely to pick the most attractive looking man waiting, spend as much time chatting him up as she can while serving him and repeating the process while everyone else grows impatient.

She's quietly happy she's not doing a full shift today, even though it means she's going to be here until stupid o'clock in the morning one day next week.

Marius will make it worth it she's sure.

She tries to forget Edith's comments but it only forces them further forward and creates a new idea that causes her stomach to drop. What if Edith approaches Marius and bluntly gives her away, no doubt while flirting doubly hard, she really wouldn't put it past Edith to do exactly that and think she was doing Eponine a favour.

"_This shift is going to be even longer than I thought"_ she groans.

Another hour it'll be so full in here that she won't be able to see two feet beyond the bar if she tried if every night she's been here is any experience, although it usually empties out by about nine, she assumes people go on to parties or later opening establishments, she's glad for it means she and Marius will be able to talk in relative peace.

Quickly she pulls off her coat, hangs it upon the wooden claw footed stand. Retrieves her own frilly waist apron and ties her over her dress, the way it's designed brings it together to emphasise her figure, something she's all too well aware is bigger than it used to be. All these are well oiled motions.

She looks good enough she reckons, but one final check of her teeth doesn't go amiss, neither does a quick smile practice, keeping up appearances is as important as actually pouring the drinks in this trade. In doing so she again notices the dimples in her cheeks, they're another feature that has appeared since she gained the opportunity to eat properly.

_"Ready as I'll ever be"_ she judges and ventures from the relative safety into the commotion beyond.

Her shift itself is as a whole, unremarkable.

Edith conforms entirely to Eponine's predictions and therefore she at least feels as if she were picking up the bulk of the work. The job isn't that taxing however, the worst part is those who have incredibly long orders that she has to remember the whole of in one go.

Its an interesting study in people anyhow.

Some patrons are shy and avoided eye-contact, merely telling her what they want and waiting awkwardly to pay. Others actually attempt conversation, nearly always starting with lines such as "busy tonight isn't it?" or "you need a hand back there love?" She never tells them their words are void of charm, merely sounding drunk or arrogant.

It was just part of this industry; you took it or took your leave.

Generally people are well behaved though. The hours on the clock set in the middle of the mirror behind the shelves of bottles that lined the wall behind the bar's hands slowly transverse the clock's face three times.

Three hours of the of popping corks, of the gurgling of wine leaving it's bottle and splashing into it's intended glass or in some cases, over the bar when she misjudges, of people spilling their drinks, sometimes in spectacular fashion, of forcing herself to smile so much her face ached and of remembering the cocktails some people who fancy themselves as having higher tastes than for just a glass of wine or brandy ask for.

Its enough to ware anybody out, even somebody hardy like Eponine.

The worst in her opinion is when it involved Gin, which is fortunately rare for the stuff they have is imported from London and doesn't come cheap. She still dreads the moment somebody asked for it though, much as she has no aversion to a drink in general, the smell of that stuff makes her gag.

The requests are endless.

"Can I get a bottle of that red from last time?"

"Two cognacs please me'dear."

"Another large glass of the same please."

And so it goes on and on until Eponine can no longer clearly remember what she'd been doing only a few minutes before. The ache in her back also only gets worse, for between bending to gather glasses and bottles her pain only becomes more pronounced, her worries don't ease as time draws on either.

More than a couple of times she catches herself nearly forgetting the names of the wines people wanted - honestly they sold at least 20 varieties nearly all of which had long overly fancy names how was she to remember them all individually?

If she does get any orders wrong though, nobody says anything.

As predicted the place gentled empties between eight and nine, the floor space once again becomes space and even a couple of empty tables re-appear.

With the change the rush of orders falls to a trickle, it won't be long until Marius arrived now, that thought only tempts her further to have a sneaky glass herself.

Edith excuses herself for the toilet - by that she almost certainly means a cigarette too - as soon as a minute arises when nobody is waiting.

Eponine merely leans against the bar and takes a deep sucking breath; she's more used to working day time shifts when things aren't quite as frantic, too much of this and even the streets don't seem quite so bad.

"_Well maybe not but still." _

She takes this moment to observe the customers still here.

There's a young couple getting quite steamy in one of the red upholstered booths along the opposite wall, it's no uncommon sight but it doesn't settle Eponine, more emphasizes her fear. She doesn't allow her eye's to linger for long, normally she wouldn't even have paid any attention.

Moving along a small group of students, they're obviously students from the way they banter each other, hold their arms around the young ladies they sit with – some of whom Eponine wouldn't be surprised if they'd never met before an hour or so ago – and their apparently endless wallets.

There's a drunk girl in the corner, Eponine can tell by her slightly floppy stance and vacant expression, the man she's talking to looks far more coherent but also unaware of whatever it is he's saying to her is falling on deaf ears.

These are perhaps the most 'interesting' people, here and there slightly older men – for the vast majority of the customers who come through here are men – sit talking quietly, the levels of liquid in their glasses only gradually dropping while all around the volume has fallen too and Eponine can hear the music properly now.

She's never had much exposure to music, except what she heard playing from the windows of houses that owned wireless sets or the few occasions, mainly in summer when events would occur either in parades or the parks around the city where it would be performed live, even then she'd never had the time to stop, listen and appreciate.

The stuff that plays here is nearly all jazz or swing, she hadn't actually known the names of the different types until Edith had somewhat exasperatedly explained it to her sometime ago.

Yet despite it all it has the same captivating ability over her that it does for all those she's spoken to, mainly customers here in the quiet moments who've spoken to her about it. On multiple occasions she's caught herself trying to dance, something she's neither done before nor possesses any idea how to do correctly while the melodies of pieces she doesn't even know the names of linger in her mind.

She listens carefully to the quiet saxophone solo that plays from the recesses of the room, it perfectly off sets the tension she feels, she could easily close her eye's and drink it in but knows she can't, being able to listen though makes the prospect of the rest of the shift far more bearable.

She continues to pour drinks when requested, tender change in the makeshift till system they have which comprises of a compartmented strong box while thanking her lucky stars their prices are fairly uniform to various 10s of Francs or smaller change, maths is not something that comes naturally to Eponine, the only numbers she has thought for right now is those on the clock which at the last check told her it was 9:42.

Marius would be arriving any moment…

The jitters race through her as does the sudden fear that he's going to stand her up, that thought freezes her in place for a second, he wouldn't do that would he? No… surely he wouldn't, this was Marius after all.

"_But how do you 'know' he won't? What if he's rumbled you?" _

If she wasn't so nervous she would've instantly recognised the irrationality of her thoughts as just that but suddenly in an awful way they seem all too plausible, her insides take that opportunity to squirm.

From that moment out every second seemed to drag by and her emotions start changing by the second one she's irritable, the next despairing and the moment after back on the jitters.

Seven tortuous minutes pass in this fashion, then eight then nine.

She has to keep taking deep breaths in an attempt to stagger herself but she can't stop her hand from shaking as she poured a brandy for one of the students, she knew he saw but he was nice enough not to mention it.

_"This is horrible" _she bemoans to herself and no sooner has she thought it, she hears the jingle of the small cast iron bell that sat above the door merrily announcing somebody's arrival or departure.

Its a sound Eponine has become so used to it usually doesn't even register anymore but this time she's hypersensitive to it, her head snaps up sharply, too sharply in fact for her vision wobbles for a second but when it comes back into focus, there he is.

He's more than a sight for her sore eye's standing looking directly at her from the doorway.

He's not wearing the grey suit after all but Eponine doesn't care - she's sure he'd still look handsome if he wore a second hand coal miners overall - she notes however that the pinstriped trousers with the grey waistcoat and thin knotted tie he's got on under his black greatcoat 'is' far more fetching, but it's not as fetching as the iridescent smile he flashes as their eye's meet.

She observes him, every inch of him as he approaches, just one look was enough and every fibre of her just wants to jump the bar and throw herself into his arms, she's tempted too even though in one hand he holds folded umbrella that's leaving line of large water droplets in it's wake it's so saturated and in the other his equally sodden looking trilby.

Her breath catches in her throat as she tries to speak for a second and her heart reaches a distinctly uncomfortable pace, she takes a deep breath praying that he doesn't notice her current disposition. If he does he masks it well for he places his hat on the bar in front of her and leans sideways towards her with a playful look.

"Evening 'Ponine" he says fondly and Eponine feels herself melt at the use of the nickname.

"Evening Monsieur, what can I do for you?" she asks feigning indifference, it's a little piece she often does because it garners his attention.

"Oh come now must you 'always' tease me?" he asks with a laugh that Eponine can't prevent herself from sharing, "especially when I've walked in this way in a howling gale to see you" he continues and if it's possible, the statement of that makes her fall just a little bit harder.

"I don't know what you mean Monsieur, when I arrived it was beautiful and sunny out there" she says, _"what the hell was that?" _she chastises but it only makes Marius laugh and she no longer can regret it.

"Well then 'Ponine I would like to visit your world for it sounds like an interesting place" he says still looking at her with a charming yet slightly boyish grin.

Oh God… why does he have to be so charming to her? She's already a puddle…

"Actually I think you'll find my world to be fairly boring" she winks, perhaps she's channelling Edith right now but she's sure the gesture doesn't flow as naturally on her.

"Nonsense 'Ponine!" Marius exclaims "I'm sure you've got fascinating stories to tell, in fact, I know you do!" If anybody else had said that to her she'd have wondered if it were meant as a double edged comment, it certainly cuts a bit close but she knows it's well meant.

_"I hope you find what I have to say fascinating Marius…"_

"Well I do you'll have to wait for another ten minutes or so to hear them" she's suddenly for some reason entirely aware of her accent and how thick it sounds compared to Marius's refined tone.

"Like I say tease tease tease" he chuckles "well in that case I'll take a glass. No actually, forgive me, make that a bottle of the usual and go mind my own business" the way he said it told her it was a joke, but those words still hurt a little to hear.

Without even quite realizing her act dropped with her stomach as she leaned towards him "I'm sorry Marius" she says quickly reaching out and placing her hand on his elbow which he's using to lean on. She's unreasonably terrified she's hurt his feelings in some way.

Perhaps he picks up on the change for he just shakes his head and says in a softer voice "No don't apologise 'Ponine I wouldn't have you any other way it'd be like taking the moon from the night sky." Marius was fond of romanticism and on her it worked, the urge to kiss him is so strong but she doesn't dare, to distract herself from the want she smiles broadly to his compliment and gets about fetching his drink.

She knows which one, it's the only one she's memorized the name of in this place not in small part with the hope of impressing him by pouring it before he asked. She quickly scans the bottles on the shelf below the bar wincing as pain runs through her back once more, she hopes Marius whom she knows is watching her doesn't see her flinch, she's not exactly sure how she'd explain what happened just before she left home…

Her hands slide across several bottles looking for the specific one, which in a sea of green glass and white labels isn't as easier task as it sounds. Most customers stick to whichever wine is cheapest or comes with a recommendation and they're never difficult to locate, but Marius happens to have a preference.

It takes her a few seconds longer than she's comfortable with to locate the bottles of Mondeuse Noire.

Standing up Eponine now sees Edith watching her from the doorway to the staffroom, her legs are cocked and her arms crossed, she's looking between Eponine and Marius knowingly, but what irks Eponine most is she has a grin that looks sly even by her standards…

Choosing one of the shiniest glasses from the tray she quickly shoots a scowl in Edith's direction, one that she hopes communicates all too well her thought of _"don't even think about it…" _

Edith only smirks before turn to address the only other person waiting at the bar, one of the students lady friends… Marius fortunately again is oblivious, something for which Eponine is eternally grateful as she places the glass before him and reaches for the corkscrew.

"Oh and a glass for yourself when you finish" Marius says, Eponine can't suppress her grin but tries to style it as a look of concentration as she twists the unwilling cork from the bottle neck. When it finally comes free with a pop she pushes them towards Marius and speaks her mind "you're too nice to me."

He merely gives her a questioning glance, shakes his head slightly and says "nonsense!" before placing money in her hand without her even having thought to ask for it yet, of course he already knows the price she realizes he never buys anything else since he found out they sold it.

That moment, the look upon his face when he'd first laid eyes upon a bottle of that wine here. It's one of those odd little things about Marius that lingers in Eponine's mind, almost like a fingerprint on a window, it's just one aspect of something far larger and entirely different and yet it's still there, noticeable and comes with questions of its own.

His look hadn't been one of delight at finding an old favourite, but one of longing and not the greedy self indulgent longing she'd have expected of somebody locating a wine they held in esteem.

She remembers he said something about trying it drinking at a café he used to go to with friends and that he'd worn the look of sadness that he often had when he recalled something.

She looks at him as he picks up the bottle and glass absently; she's trying to suss him when he gives her a slightly bemused look. She's perplexed for a second herself before realizing with a start he's waiting for the second glass, the one that's for her benefit.

Quickly she reaches for another and he nods towards one of the empty booths opposite "I'll be waiting for you over there" he says with one final dazzling flash of a smile he leaves her breathless to wait the final few minutes until she can join him.

They're in a word, hellish.

Within seconds of being left alone Edith sidles alongside Eponine and whispers in over her shoulder "get in there girl" Eponine who had still been too caught up watching Marius take his seat and pour his drink – she really couldn't explain how even his doing such simple everyday things endeared him to her even more – wheeled around shooting the other young woman a look that could have turned all the wine in the house to vinegar.

Edith however apparently thought it was hilarious for she skips off in the midst of a giggling fit, leaving Eponine to face ten minutes of being so close but yet so far.

Nobody comes to the bar, she has literally nothing to do and it's as if the clock has conspired to go even slower than it normally feels. She tries her best not to stare at Marius; it's a temptation that nags at her to the point of obsession.

Every time she does work up the nerve to steal a glance in his direction she see's him doing something different. He's making himself comfortable, then pouring his drink, next taking a sip while gazing into space, the fourth time he's looking directly at her and she jerks away in freight she's sure she's not doing very well and that he'll realize somethings up before she can tell him.

_"This was a stupid idea" _she thinks to herself and now she can't convince herself she's wrong.

She looks at the clock, five minutes, her sides ache from fear and she realizes she's been grinding her teeth without noticing for sometime, she needs something to do, anything…

She finds it in the form of a cloth that sits in a dented bucket under the bar, it's just another example of how this whole situation is weird, she usually chooses to wipe the bar top when she doesn't have to, but it gives her something to concentrate on and, less conventionally an excuse to be looking in Marius's direction.

Eventually it works and the clock strikes ten, Marius looks over and she finally realizes it's time. Giving a quick nod she retreats to the staff room, she doesn't even dare glance at Edith as she passes and closes the door behind her.

For a second she's almost hyperventilating, then she catches sight of herself in the mirror. Her cheeks are aglow and she can't help but grin at the knowledge this could be 'it.'

So long she's dreamed of his embrace, of his kiss and of his love and within the next few hours it might finally be open to her, the nerves are suddenly gone in a rush of heartfelt excitement that makes her feel like a teenager with a crush all over again, or maybe in a way she is? Her youth hardly gave her time for such things… perhaps she is a little behind, all ways she hopes beyond hope he will be her education on the subject.

She pulls off her apron and slings it ungracefully into the draw before running her fingers through her hair a couple of times, the results don't satisfy her much and she tries again with an exultation brought on by stress, she's sure she'd start seeing grey hairs if she had to do this regularly, hell pick pocketing men twice her height hadn't daunted her as much as this.

Flattening the hair on the top of her head with an over-zealous swipe that leaves her rubbing her temple for a second she gives up, she could stand here all night and never be ready. Again she makes one final check before sighing to the empty room that suddenly seems even smaller than its usual cosy dimensions.

He's come like she asked him to, he's waiting for her like she hoped he would and he's been all smiles in the process. It's almost enough to convince her, but not quite enough and so she lingers, she feels like her soul is being stretched in two opposite directions and it's terrifying.

She knows her only other option now is to sneak out the back door and run for it but if she does she'll upset Marius and have to explain herself and… just everything about that scenario which plays out in her head is bad, she can't do that, not now.

Taking a staggered breath she turns, nods to herself for self affirmation, picks up her coat and heart taking residence in her throat she makes a beeline for the door and out into unknown.

* * *

Enjolras hadn't a clue how long he'd been sitting, semi-torpid, in the bathtub.

Getting in had presented a challenge he hadn't considered and it'd been that which had wiped the incident in the corridor from his thoughts.

When he'd entered he'd stood for a moment gathering his bearings, the bathroom - despite being filled with thick clouds of clinging steam which billowed from the metal tub creating a good imitation of a sauna – conformed to the rest of the house he'd revisited in that it'd hardly changed since he last saw it.

The lock he found was as stiff as before if not more so, in fact perhaps even more brutal on the thumbs, the tap still dripped in a fundamentally irritating rhythm while the general smell of damp mixed with faded tones of soap - the one that induced memories of the many mornings in which Enjolras had previously sat in the tub thinking on some sort of political discourse or otherwise how he could optimise that day - was omnipresent.

Now he'd seen the bath he'd all of a sudden felt surprisingly eager to get in and since the steam had raised the room's temperature well above its standard unpleasant chill, slipping off his damp clothes wasn't the counter-intuitive move it had often been before.

Once ready he'd gingerly dipped his hand in, until that moment he'd failed to recall that Mademoiselle Chevrolet nearly always drew baths hot enough to boil a lobster in.

Of course, it'd been a small feature of his mornings to always wonder if her skin is in fact stitched from old boot leather.

But, after two years of generally cold showers in the communal blocks when he was on leave and going without in the field, he simply slipped in and attempted as best he could to appreciate it.

He's been doing this now for enough time that the water temperature has fallen noticeably, that's something that takes a while in a metal tub such as this. In that time he's been laying back, taking what physical comfort he can. The ache in his lower back begins to wane as he flexes his toes amongst the bubbles.

It's the closest he's felt to relaxed and comfortable for time uncounted, or perhaps that's partly because he's still sleepy.

His mind wanders not over everything that's recently passed, but in fact also for the first time in a long time, the trivial.

Thoughts of going to see a film for the first time in two years enchant him, as does the idea of smelling the inviting scent of old books at the library.

Being home doesn't have to be all bad, he decides and he feels something akin to hope for a few moments.

The realizations flow one by one, he can eat non-rationed food that's been prepared with quality ingredients once more, go for a drink in a bar where doom and gloom won't necessarily hang in an atmosphere so thick a blade could cut it, or simply enjoy seeing faces on the street that at least won't share the beleaguered stare or terror of the Spanish citizens caught in the conflict.

Their faces linger for a moment, he'll never forget them, the same way he never forgets the faces of the homeless of Paris whom he'd often give more than he could afford to given the chance.

They're all victims in the end.

The faces in his mind change, mutate, it's no longer the people of Spain in his head, but his comrades. The dirt-streaked, determination filled faces of those of the Republican Army who wore the red-star badges on their caps. Or the sheer pride in the gaze of the others, such as himself, whose star had been worn along with the patch of the international brigades. The red, light orange and purple horizontal tricolour inset with a red three pointed star of the Spanish Popular Front.

The same as the flag he'd saluted and fought under, a flag that was doomed to be burnt in every Spanish province now the war was all but lost to the fascists.

The Nationalist advance on Barcelona, the de facto capital of the Republic since the beautiful historic Madrid had, between fierce pitched battles and devastating Nationalist bombing raids been reduced a rubble strewn wasteland in front of his very eyes, was only getting faster by all accounts.

The memories of his comrades, the nameless ones who'd merely been in the background during his tenure but whom he'd still fought alongside in a bond of camaraderie that would never be broken fill him.

Some of them had been Parisians, perhaps he should have been proud that by far the largest International Brigades had been the French, he was sure some of the other regulars at the Café Musain had made the journey south too.

The sudden vision of the Café Musain he gets is overpowering, he wonders momentarily if he should make a return there now he's back. He knows he'd get a raucous reception. All those who'd gone to Spain and come back had was what he'd heard through the grapevine but then, he knows the pain he'll feel when the fellow Les Amis aren't there with him, their ghosts and presence will haunt every alcove, the simple pain of association would be crippling if he returned…

His previous line of thoughts of what he can do now he's home feels like a mockery, all his ideas are filled with some sort of choking memory that pushes them into off limits territory.

Seeing a film makes him think of Courfeyrac sitting hand in hand in a smoky screen with one of his lady friends, the library of Combeferre pouring over a musty tome, a bar of Grantaire doing his best to deplete the stockroom before hitting on a woman twice his age, going back out to rouse support in poor areas of Joly and his habit of visiting and ensuring the care of poor families sick children…

He will never escape associations, they're too entrenched and he and his friends too similar in their habits and haunts for Enjolras to ever stop feeling the shadows of their past presence in those places.

It's surprising how entirely grounded and down to earth this all seems, as if it's solid fact, there's no denying that the situation he's now in is bizarre in an awful way.

It's an awfulness that begins to multiply and reform as new shapes in his head.

He clenches, he knows well what often follows when he falls into this mood.

Flashbacks, they've fast become a thing of dread. They're so vivid and come on without his even seeing their approach.

It's happening now he knows it; he can smell the acrid tang of chemicals and the harsh sting of smoke. Visions of clouds of masonry dust and raging fire pillaging through the shells of buildings while the innocuous yet deadly drone of aircraft engines vanish into the dark to be replaced by agonised screams.

He sees the aftermath of the bombing as if it were before him, he feels the sweat that drenched him then and the sheer shock that had frozen his mud streaked boots to the pavement as the devastation unfolded.

Air raids had been the worst thing about the war in so many ways, the battles had been terrible enough, a single hive of death, mechanical death with all glory and honour striped from the men of either side whom believed in their cause enough to stand in the enemies line of fire.

Nobody ever told him about the way a dying man screams or begs for his mother. The fact that upon death a the body ejects whatever contents the colon and bladder happen to hold, or that wounds which one would hope and imagine being instantly fatal often leave several agonised minutes of life between their being sustained and the victim finally gaining his peace.

All these things are realities Enjolras has been forced to witness time and again, yet at the end of the day, as horrific as it was all those men had known the stakes, there had been a clear goal and objective, it was a war and in war soldiers die. They all went in knowing it was a distinct possibility.

Air raids however, their victims weren't soldiers. They were women, children, the elderly and the sick, their only crime had been living in a place the Nationalists had wanted to control and so had been rained upon with high explosives as they slept in their beds.

The sheer barbarity of it had been what had shaken Enjolras; his fundamental belief in humanity had been jarred to its core.

It had been such a building block of everything he held dear, the idea of virtue and goodness being innate in all men and those whom committed evil deeds or stood for evil causes having somehow lost theirs upon the way.

But as he's forced to watch once more as a young woman cradles her child to her and screams in a piteous frenzy that has the power to chill even in its form as an echo while she watches her home burn, he's as powerless as he was during the real event.

Whimpering, Enjolras comes to his senses, he needs to snap out of this, he needs a focus point; anything that's physical in the here and now is good enough.

His vision automatically zeros in on his mid-right thigh, before he can stop.

Once again he sees the badge of reality he's burdened to wear for the rest of his days, the one he can never escape, the one he can so often feel even when it's unsightly presence is hidden beneath his trousers.

The heat of the water has made it look even worse than normal for it's taken on a surprising verity of shades in its blotches ranging from stinging red to uncomfortable purple.

Just looking at it he remembers the pain, the excruciating pain that had wiped away all his remaining illusions in a single moment that had also broken the last of his spirits even worse than the bullet that had ripped through his leg had broken his flesh.

The hated entry wound as a scar had then of course been compounded by those of the surgical knife that had crudely removed the bullet later.

Everything that was comfortable, even comforting in his present setting has soured.

It feels like it's doomed to be his curse, he can only feel any form of reality now when he's pretending he hasn't seen and done all the things that have come to define him. Now he feels disgusted with himself for indulging it, if there's to be any purpose to any of it he can't retreat into self forgiving fantasy .

The problem is he thinks – his head drooping as he does so – is that he has no idea how to approach giving anything purpose now that his long held idea of it has been ripped away from him and tauntingly shaken.

He'd been fuelled by a burning desire to change the world for so long, but the world had merely flung dirt at him - in cases quite literally - and left him entirely in the dark on how to continue.

_"I wanted to change the world, no; I had to change the world. Now I want to change the past."_

The bath now feels like an oppressive cage in which he currently sits naked and exposed, he can't be in here any more, he just can't.

Shakily Enjolras attempts to stand, managing eventually with some difficulty.

His leg feels tender again, partially because he's put thought to the constant dull ache and partly because despite now being over a couple of months old, it's not entirely healed, that's a long way off, but it will still probably be the first and maybe only aspect that will.

Moving works however; the last of the flashback has receded for now.

"_Am I looking for an escape?"_ he asks himself meekly, all he gets as a response however is the dripping of water from his own skin back into the tub and the gentle lapping of the disturbance his movements have caused in the now grimy look depths around his feet.

He shivers slightly, now he's out of the water the room feels much colder.

He wonders how long it's been since he got in, the skin on the ends of his fingers had shrivelled into something resembling raisins but that can still only provide a rough clue, all cases he supposes the next thing to do once he's dry and dressed is to go and see if dinners ready regardless that he's not remotely hungry, he'll only be press ganged into it later so he might as well volunteer…

After a few minutes of wondering he pokes his head around the door to find a small pile of dry clothes neatly folded awaiting him, he has no idea whose they are, whomever it is they're obviously larger than Enjolras, especially in the waist department.

Indeed the shirt Mademoiselle Chevrolet has left him with is so big he could, if he'd been so inclined, worn it as a dress while he's also convinced he could get lost in the pin striped trousers, keeping them up as he fumbled to attach his braces – they being the only things which are actually his that aren't still soaked – is an irritating logistical challenge.

When he finally exits, clutching his first pile of laundry he makes sure to turn the corridor light on.

It's now completely dark outside, no light whatsoever is to be had from the window and having navigated the stairs here in the dark of the night he knows to do so is taking ones life into their own hands, or footing at least.

Eventually he's safely down and approaching the kitchen door he catches scent of the stew he's been promised. It tantalises and taunts him all at once, his stomach rumbles with a slightly embarrassing volume and following that the hunger pangs won't leave him alone.

At least he won't have to force feed himself, that's something of a plus.

He's seen the power of food before, just one hint can turn a hungry person into a beast and motivate them to do things that the well fed who'd never known such desperation would consider barbaric.

It happens here in Paris; he's seen cases of it himself and been told second hand about a great many more.

At the height of the depression when the factories that many Parisian workers relied upon went bust and closed their doors people had literally beaten others to extort money for food from them or resorted to stealing from bakeries and the like on a daily basis to survive.

He'd been at school on October 29th, 1929 when the stock markets on Wall Street in New York all the way across the Atlantic had crashed.

When he'd heard the news he'd already been an avowed anti-capitalist and it'd fuelled his hope that the revolution was imminent. He'd even argued with several of his fellow students in the dorms about it on multiple occasions, more than one of which had nearly turned physical, the last remnants of his childish timidity had still clung to him then.

But having now witnessed the half a decade of horrors that the capitalist lust for money had plunged the average person of western nations into, it was even more unforgivable, to both Enjolras and many others too.

But of course different peoples in different places had responded to it in different ways.

In France it'd led to the initially promising, but eventually impotent Popular Front which he himself had played a part in bringing about when he'd cast his ballot for the SFIO in Thirty Six', only months before his departure.

He'd secretly held out hope that as a result, France would come to the aid of the Spanish Republic, even until their fall in Thirty Seven' and especially when they'd Nationalised the Arms Industry, but no such luck.

Prime Minister Léon Blum, somebody who Enjolras had once regarded as one of 'the people's men' had decided it was too expensive to officially support their supposed comrades in Spain and although it was a choice that had eventually cost him his job, it'd meant a far higher price for those who'd gone.

The remains of the Front that having recently been defeated by the in Enjolras's eye's even less impressive Radical Édouard Daladier… Still he supposes, it could've been much worse, Germany had elected Hitler and all that entailed.

Enjolras runs his hand dejectedly down his face as he feels his stomach drop at the recollection of that 'lovely' little fact.

Many around him still don't believe there could be another war or, that was to say, don't want to believe it. He knows better, it's been on the horizon since 1933 and anybody who denies it is in his eye's just being wilfully ignorant.

He understands why, entirely so.

They're afraid and he can't blame them for being, but in his opinion, fear is no excuse for denial and it never will be.

Enjolras remembers how he had watched the news carefully from his dorm room at school and later from his attic room here, the Café Musain had always buzzed with rumours whenever the 'National Socialists' – a title Enjolras found grievously insulting for its appropriations – rattled the bars of their cage.

He remembers clearly the March night in Thirty Six', before he and the Les Amis had journeyed to fight Fascism in Spain. The night when the news read in a monotone voice which crackled in over the Café's old wireless and filled the room with a deathly pallor as it announced that German troops had re-entered the Rhineland in direct contravention of the Versailles Treaty, designed specifically to prevent Germany from waging another war, and that yet Paris, their own government did nothing.

If black storm clouds had gathered in the atmosphere in the place it would've been fitting.

Beyond the man on the radio's raspy words it'd been so quite you could've heard a pin drop as everybody strained to hear any sign that it wasn't a nasty joke.

Even Enjolras had joined in Grantaire's offer of a drink once the program had been finished and the set banished to a shelf high above the bar for the night. It'd been the only topic which had been spoken of by all under the establishment's roof for the rest of the evening and for several days following.

He remembered well the way Courfeyrac's knuckles had turned as he clenched them while they'd mutedly discussed the implications and of the way Joly had begun scratching his scalp below his fluffy mop of hair every few moments, like he always did when he got nervous.

Enjolras had been as stone faced and blunt with his thoughts as ever as he'd told the other Les Amis they should have no illusions as to what it meant.

What he'd suspected had tragically turned out correct from the course of events that had followed.

Austria had been next earlier this year and now it was apparently Czechoslovakia, Hitler was looking to conquer Europe and get rid of anybody who failed to conform to his 'Aryan' ideal, just like he'd always made damn clear he wanted to, and nobody lifted a finger.

His frustration boils back over then, if he were a more demonstrative person he might have kicked at the dusty skirting board or let out some verbal hint, but as with most of Enjolras's emotional reactions its internal.

Before Spain it would've probably spurred him into writing another speech or to a newspaper. Something productive at least. Now it just makes him feel even more hopeless.

Its no lie that the future, one he'd youthfully been so assured would be better now frightens him too. The paradigm shift of this only contributes the tip of the iceberg to his general sorrowful bewilderment as to what he's to do with himself.

All of a sudden he once more isn't at all hungry, looks like he'll be forcing himself to chew after all.

He listens at the kitchen door as these unpleasant foreboding thoughts come and go, if Mademoiselle Chevrolet is in her zone making dinner he doesn't want to disturb her, doing that is one of the few ways somebody can get on her nerves, that's not a pretty sight.

All he hears however through the thick grain of the wood is the gentle sound of something simmering in a pot. Gingerly he pushes the door open, peers round and finds the landlady sitting alone at the table sipping from a glass of brandy, he notes her poison hasn't changed either then.

She looks up and greets him almost instantly while beckoning him to a seat opposite her, he had been expecting her to chatter and for him to have to nod along politely but as luck has it she just says "ready in about 10 minutes" and after that she's too busy with finishing the preparations to attempt conversation.

In those few minutes of relative quiet he just looks around the kitchen, its been much as he remembers it aside from indeed, the swish new stove the older woman whose currently stirring the contents of a large metal pan, the base of which has discoloured from its originally shiny silver to a dull brassy tone.

Enjolras can't help but suddenly again feel the sense that he hasn't quite registered his return.

The bare tiled walls some with a faded rose pattern upon them. The wooden fronted cabinets that must be decades replete with missing chips and scrapes, the bare flagstone of the floor and the tea towel he remembers vividly once catching a flame from the old stove as Mademoiselle Chevrolet had tried to serve, that had been an interesting if alarming Sunday dinner.

The atmosphere of a simple but working kitchen pervades the room, the pipes from under the sink still look rusty and the back door to the courtyard looks as, if not more ready to collapse in on itself than he remembers, the night beyond sounds as unpleasant as the day he walked through had been.

The room is filled with the harsh light of a naked bulb that hangs from the middle of the ceiling surrounded by cracks from where it was retro-fitted by a former tenant. He also notices mousetraps have appeared in the rooms corners, that are something else that's changed of course, Macon won't be attempting to steal their food as he used to like trying to do. It also means the mice will be around in force.

Enjolras is still gazing absently around when a tin bowl of steaming stew is suddenly placed before him by a wrinkled hand. While still blinking at its sudden appearance, he hears the slight ringing clatter of cutlery being moved before a draw slamming shut and a suddenly a spoon has appeared in front of him too.

"There you go" Mademoiselle Chevrolet says before she settles opposite him with a creak of her chair. "Thank you" he says dull voiced. "You're welcome" she says lifting her own spoon "now eat up or you'll waste away." She gives him a slightly accusing look before she tucks in and stops talking.

Enjolras has to admit it looks good and smells amazing but his appetite hasn't roused, the first bites are the hardest but he gets through them and carries on.

After a few moments he becomes aware that between mouthfuls he's being analysed subtly, the middle aged woman across the table can read people like books if their guard is down, Enjolras's former marble like composure had thwarted her in her attempts before, now his silence he realizes is not hard to interpret.

"Is nobody else joining us?" he asks attempting to break it.

"No not tonight" the older woman says simply with finality, "everyone else is away or out" she adds.

"Oh?" Enjolras says, that's different from before, six seat claw footed table that he's sure dates from the previous century was often full before. He doesn't say anything else, idle chit chat was never his strong point, though he's not surprised when she chooses to expand on the topic "It's actually a whole new group since you went."

Enjolras isn't surprised by that either and in a way he's glad, he'd rather not face the obvious 'so what've you been up to?' like questions he would've invariably got had familiar faces still been present.

The image of the young woman from earlier flashes through his mind "Yes well I met…" he says before trailing off for a second, "perhaps met isn't the right word" he decides out loud before taking another pause before finishing his point. "I ran into one of them earlier, quite literally actually" he settles on matter-of-factly.

Mademoiselle Chevrolet looks up with curiosity "Young woman?" she asks between mouthfuls. He nods in affirmation. "Well it must've been Thenardier, she's the only one who would've been in at that time" she says candidly.

"I didn't recognise her" Enjolras thinks aloud, it's not a subject he's that invested in but it's better than being scrutinized. The older woman just nods "no surprise, she only ended up here a few months ago" she seems to think for a moment before adding "keeps herself to herself mostly, not so unlike someone else I know."

He gets her implication, Miss Thenardier whomever she is apparently is at ease with keeping her own company like himself. It's not of much interest to him and he feels he has nothing to add.

Quiet falls again. Before at busier meal times he'd take the part of the silent one at the table, the one who'd think while he ate and only responded to the general conversation when actually directly asked a question or for his opinion.

People's days, places here and there or opinions on trivial matters had dominated those times, Mademoiselle Chevrolet like most forbade discussion of money, politics or religion at the table 'it's not the time or place' she'd always say and she'd make no bones of chastising anybody who attempted such a topic.

"How's the meat for you?" she asks bringing Enjolras back to reality once more. He just answers honestly "it's as good ever." The food is delicious, far better than anything he's tasted in months; he hadn't actually realized how much he'd missed a good home cooked meal until now.

The older lady didn't seem to take what he said too seriously then as she semi-scowled at her bowl, apparently she didn't regard it as one of her best. "Not too much rosemary then?"

Enjolras shakes his head "no it's fine" he insists and he's not lying, then again he doesn't have a particularly refined pallet, food from communal canteens or tins to which he's grown accustomed were welcome but hardly gourmet by any stretch of the imagination.

"Good" she says and he wonders if she believes him or thinks he's just being polite. Either way it doesn't prevent her from springing a trap "if you like it that much you'll have seconds" she says with another disapproving look at his midriff.

He sits back slightly upon finishing but feels the wooden spokes of his chairs back dig between his shoulder blades causing him to shift uncomfortably. Mademoiselle Chevrolet watches him with a slightly amused expression and following the re-establishment of eye contact she asks him a question he wishes she hadn't "so what do you think you'll do with yourself now?"

"I don't know" he has to prevent himself from snapping but it still comes out curt. She meant no harm in asking he knows that, but it's a sore subject. Perhaps it works for she drops the subject, he can tell she's a little hurt however in the tone she takes as she carries on "your friend Marius comes by every now and then still."

Enjolras stops dead in his chair, there's a name he's not heard in a long time, a name that brings about a strong case of ambivalence. The grey haired woman keeps going although more thinking aloud than a direct address "in fact it was him who brought Madame Thenardier here, she was quite a sight when she first arrived."

Well that's a coincidence he thinks, or perhaps not, there's obviously a story behind it, perhaps Miss Thenardier is a slightly more relevant subject after all, but also not one that he instantly thinks about, his thoughts are still occupied by the other mentioned name.

"Marius?" he says coolly.

"Yes dear Marius" nods Mademoiselle Chevrolet apparently mistaking it for a non-rhetorical question. Enjolras doesn't move, he just feels his furrowed brows knit closer together as he remembers the last time he saw the erstwhile Les Amis member, the only one who hadn't gone to Spain...

Enjolras had rarely thought about Marius since leaving France, a small part of him did consider the freckly man a traitor to the cause and a coward, but the much larger share of him had understood why he hadn't joined them and even was glad of it.

His mind replays the scene in his head, an event he's not dwelt on for it didn't seem important to events afterwards, but perhaps it is now?

* * *

_Two Years Earlier - September 7__th__, 1936_

Enjolras stood surveying his room, except it looked nothing like how he was used to seeing it any more. Upon arriving he'd created systems for storing his things books on the shelf above his desk, his papers categorized in his draws by subject – his academic papers from his degree were in the bottom draw, his personal musings that on any and all subjects that caught his interest from philosophy to history which he'd consigned to paper in the middle and his political related pieces took pride of place in the top – while his personal effects were neatly placed in a small pile which he could easily sift through as he decided what he needed each specific day.

Today in the hazy sunshine that spills in and fills the space with a warm pale light, it looks as though the entire room has seen a visit from a swarm of locusts; it's in a word a mess.

His papers are now all in the bottom draw while the majority of his books have a new home in the other two. His wardrobe has been emptied, the clothes he has decided not to take having been given away too one of the trade union run poor relief charities, those he has which comprise largely of just a few of his most practical items are folded into a battered leather case that sits open upon his bed.

It's there on his bed that it appears most of the contents of the room have been placed following being uprooted, yet the same neat categorization system has translated to the items which rest upon the quilt.

Enjolras does a final three-sixty, the identity he'd inadvertently stamped upon the place is now gone, it just looks like an attic room again much as it did when he'd arrived full of anger at his world.

Now however that anger has translated into a collected drive, a drive he's currently using to double check his perpetrations are complete. His hand slips into his trouser pocket inadvertently once more and he feels the smooth slightly resistant surface of the cheap paper on which the train tickets are printed.

The plan is entirely in motion now, the wheels have turned and they won't turn back. It hadn't taken long, only a poultry four days, it had still been four days of almost agonizing waiting to Enjolras's mind.

Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Prouvaire had – albeit with lumps visible in their throats as they did so – agreed solemnly to take their place with him once he'd suggested it.

Joly had taken slightly more convincing, Enjolras hadn't blamed him for being hesitant, it was doubtless a heavy commitment with which came untold dangers yet eventually, an appeal to comradeship – largely led by Combeferre whom had turned out to be Enjolras's strongest supporter – had won the skittish young man over.

Grantaire however had quite purposely made merry with the brandy and become too incoherent to attempt such discussion with. Yet surprisingly he had turned up almost blind hung-over at this very bedrooms door the next morning and despite being obviously frightened, stated his agreement in a display that brought the closest thing the fire-eyed socialist had ever felt to respect for the perpetually dishevelled man.

Later that day when they'd convened to make their plans Feuilly – perhaps the only one of their number whose study of the topic of revolution could match Enjolras's – whom had been absent the day before, arrived and enthusiastically agreed to join them.

Only one man hadn't appeared, that day or given any indication of his intent, Marius. Enjolras doesn't know what to think about this, he has had strong doubts but when push came to shove he bought the man a ticket. He just hopes he can make his mind up.

Enjolras slips the tickets from his pocket and studies them intensely for an extended moment. They're the only physical proof he has that this is real and despite knowing to his very core that it is, he still can't help but examine them periodically.

The dark ink inset by the logo of the Chemin de Fer de Paris à Orléans et du Midi embossed under the clearly printed words that spoke in no uncertain terms that the eight tickets he held were for the night sleeper from Paris Montparnasse station tomorrow night to Barcelona, Spain.

He pockets the tickets again and nods, he's never been so sure that he's doing the right thing, he's finally going rise and aid the revolution.

The Nationalists will be defeated by the might of the Spanish people desperate not to be enslaved to their long held political masters, it'll begin there, the revolution will springboard, the new government here in France is proof enough.

What started in St. Petersburg in 1917 and carried to Madrid in 1931 will come to Paris within the next couple of years and from there the world. London, Rome, Prague, Vienna, Warsaw. Anywhere that the capitalist or aristocratic elites still attempted to assert their ill gotten power, the uprising was inevitable.

How can it not be? For centuries people have been kept in place, from taking control of all that decides their fates, with ideas of a natural order to things imposed by some divine purpose or that those whom live in squalor simply haven't tried hard enough to get themselves out.

It's all bullshit. Enjolras knows this and furthermore, he knows that large numbers of people around the world now know this too.

_'They don't hear the people's of the worlds angry cries, but we do and this is our chance. We must use it to create a better tomorrow.' _

Combeferre's words to Joly, words he'd given his total agreement come to mind once more, they hit the nail directly on the head.

Enjolras returns to his packing, as he neatly folds things and places them into the recess of the case he once again goes over everything. Yes, he's discussed it with Mademoiselle Chevrolet and told her it's not permanent all going well, – she's even agreed to keep his room free until he says otherwise, something he's incredibly grateful for - he's gotten out a decent amount of money and had it changed, he's double checked his boots to make sure they're up for the trip and generally he's put his affairs as in order as he can think to.

This goes on for sometime, the case is almost full and the surfaces of the bed once again visible when he hears what sounds like a tapping to his right from the door. It's faint, he could've trodden a heavy footstep and drowned it out, but he stops none the less.

There's a pause, a heavy one that holds a question. He doesn't move, his eye's now fixed upon the doorway, if somebody's out there they obviously didn't knock very hard and he doesn't know who, he's certainly not expecting anybody. His fellow Les Amis are bound to be doing similar to himself right now if they have any sense and Mademoiselle Chevrolet he knows to be busy with the laundry.

It might of course just be an unwanted visitor of the feline verity, that's wouldn't be something new.

Nothing, Enjolras dismisses it and begins once again folding the pair of woollen socks he'd been preparing when it comes again, this time far louder and more definite.

"Come in" he says simply, whoever it is, he hopes it's important.

The door gives the mystery newcomer the same hard time as usual before it swings open with a lingering creak, standing looking hesitant he see's Marius.

Well, Enjolras can honestly say he wasn't expecting this but it's not unwelcome.

"Afternoon 'Jolras, can I speak with you?" Marius asks, his physical hesitance is matched in his subdued inflection. "Or is now not a good time?" he adds after observing the situation in the room for a moment.

Enjolras places the neatly folded socks into a gap amongst the rest of his luggage's contents, pulls it closed with a quick motion and turns on his heels to face him, "nows as good as any time" Enjolras says wondering what this visit is in aid of.

Marius lingers for a moment, this raises Enjolras's suspicions. Marius usually only acts like this when he's about to say something he knows won't go down well, which admittedly is not often which is why it's so especially obvious now. Here though, Enjolras has a feeling he knows where this is going and if he's correct then there's no reason to drag this out, "Come in" he repeats.

Marius nods and steps in letting the door swing shut behind him, he doesn't speak instantly.

Enjolras crosses his arms and gives Marius an expectant look. He knows what Marius will say, he's not coming. He'd already foreseen such an outcome days ago, it all comes back to the same thing with Marius, he doesn't know what he thinks well enough to make bold choices...

"'Jolras, I need to be frank, I…" Marius begins before faltering, a second more of silence passes, "I…" he tries again before finally he takes a deep breath and finally makes eye contact, Enjolras knows he's correct in his guess, it's written all over his face.

The way is expressive eye's seem to waver and his lips hold in a nervous grimace. "I've thought deeply about everything these last few days and I'm sorry but just don't think I can do it…"

Enjolras says nothing nor does he outwardly respond, the hush that envelopes the two men is complete.

On the surface Enjolras knows why Marius is afraid and he's exactly right in his reasons, the blonde man feels everything he knows his friend doesn't intend to provide, namely anger and disappointment. Enjolras knows he's only justified so far in these feelings but that doesn't prevent them from being real and potent.

Marius is a good friend, he has been for years. Politics aside Enjolras has always had an understanding with him, a sort of ability to communicate unspoken, it was Marius who had distracted Grantaire when he was at his worst and getting under Enjolras's skin. Marius had shared platforms with him too giving moral support at all stages from their interruption of the parade in Thirty Four' to when a group of right-wing 'patriots' had come looking for a fight at the Cafe last year

Marius has always been there, standing alongside everyone and Enjolras has always believed that the young man had finally found some sort of self-determination. Apparently not however.

Marius's begins to study the floor in detail, his awkward shame is plain. "Say something please" he eventually says on the point of begging.

"Like what?" asks Enjolras levelly, to him there seems surprisingly little too say.

Crimson stains Marius's pale face as he sags on the spot. "I'm sorry 'Jolras" he says shakily.

Enjolras continues to stand steadfast, he'd hoped Marius would eventually come round and join them, they've been through so much together. But furthermore now he's done this what of the others? No. Enjolras refuses to get angry, that's not his way and Marius hasn't actually done anything wrong, but he also won't pretend he's happy with decision.

"You've already apologised Marius."

"I want you to know I mean it." Marius responds sounding more upset than before.

"I don't doubt you do" says Enjolras and he's telling the truth, if there's one thing Marius is showing right now it's that he hasn't taken this lightly, that's something at least.

"I know you're angry with me Enjolras but…" Enjolras cut him off by shaking his head once, "I'm not angry Marius, disappointed though yes."

"Please let me explain" Marius says moving a step closer. Enjolras stands firm, a part of him wants to hear what the other man has to say, but to another equal part it hardly matters, in saying he won't go he's refused to back the revolution and all that comes with it and that's all there is to know, the where and why is irrelevant.

"You don't have to, you're a grown man and can make your own choices and of course I have no right or intention of making you do something you can."

Marius shakes his head and to his surprise Enjolras see's tears of frustration sparkle in his eye's. "No 'Jolras" he insists his voice nearly cracking "I still… that is I do think what you're doing is right but I just… I'm not up to it… I just…" his words taper off as his head bows, his shame is complete.

Enjolras merely looks on outwardly indifferent. Contrary to popular belief Enjolras is not heartless, he does feel for the other man's obvious pain, but if Marius is assured in his choice then there's little to say, getting sentimental will achieve absolutely nothing and therefore he maintains his outward indifference.

To all intents and purposes, despite everything they've been through, as Enjolras's watch chimes the half hour through the dead air of that moment it's just he, Marius and all the space between them.

* * *

"Is something wrong?" Mademoiselle Chevrolet's voice brings Enjolras around again, he suddenly feels a regret that he hadn't known before, it's just one more fish in the sea but, perhaps it differs in one way, it's one he can still do something about saving.

"No nothing…" he says blinking. She stands and picks up the empty bowls in front of them, he hears them clatter as she puts them in the sink and the hiss from the old pipes as she turns on the tap to rinse them. "Well then why don't you find him? He always asks about you when he drops by" she shouts over the sound of water drumming on the ceramic basin of the sink.

Enjolras doesn't move, an image of Marius, his old friend plays across his mind, he vaguely hears himself say "does he now?" as he feels a twinge of guilt.

"Yes every time" she affirms without looking at him "I see" he says, it doesn't make him feel any better. "Indeed, perhaps I should then" he says quietly, more for his own benefit. He feels tired once more all of a sudden, he also feels like he's got a cannonball resting in his stomach and it only adds to his sudden inertness.

Really what he realizes he needs is sleep, at that thought he can't suppress a yawn. But it won't come soon, his body is taunting him as it has with the bout of insomnia he's suffered for some weeks. Even so he'll attempt to sleep knowing what it'll almost certainly bring.

"Thank you for dinner Mademoiselle but I think I'm going to retire" he says attempting to be courteous as he stands and tucks his chair in. She seems to have forgotten about making him eat a second helping thankfully. That being said he walks slowly from the kitchen in the direction of the stairs.

As he slowly begins to climb the stairs – he dares not move too fast in case his leg decides to go on him again – he begins to dully consider his next moves, perhaps being forced to come down to dinner has served a purpose, but it doesn't sooth his head or heart.

* * *

**Right so there we have it! I know I know another relatively slow (and somewhat Marius heavy) chapter there… I can promise things will start to pick up next time around! Until then I'd love to know what you think :)**

**Chateau du Joie – Chateau of Joy**

**Mondeuse Noireis a real French Wine.**

**SFIO - Section Française de l'Internationale Ouvrière, or in English 'The French Section of the Workers'**

**Léon Blum was the leader of 'The French Section of the Workers' International', a Socialist Party that formed part of the Popular Front with the Communists and the Radical Socialist Party. He was French Prime Minister between June 1936 and June 1937 and again briefly for about a month between April & March 1938 as leader of the popular front who'd fallen apart the year before but still dominated the messy political situation at the time.**

**Chemin de Fer de Paris à Orléans et du Midi – Paris, Orléans and Central Railway. One of the big Railway companies in France in the 1930s.**


	4. Unpleasantries

**And we're back on air!**

**So firstly… apologies for the long wait, I never intended it to take this long. It's not the writing itself that's been a problem, just life. I had my dissertation to finish writing, edit and submit followed by the end of semester and of course life's inevitable complications which kept me too busy to write for ages and so this has sadly had to go on the back burner for a while. **

**This shouldn't be a problem from here on out.**

**I'll be honest I'm not entirely happy with this chapter but I'll leave the final assessment to you. (I have no Beta reader so the only judgement I've got before posting is my own.)**

**Again apologies to those I've kept waiting. **

**The scene is finally about to be set, again I don't own Les Mis or any other material I quote.**

* * *

Chapter Four – Unpleasantries

* * *

The lacerating sting of pain is what Eponine had expected to feel in this situation, but once again today she's been proven wrong. It's present, that's for sure and even now she can feel it working self destructively within her, but it's mixed into an even more unpleasant compound by a deep pit of embarrassment, served up with a side of self loathing and just a sprinkle disbelief.

In a strange way however, it's not foreign or frightening, but nostalgic. She's been in this sort of spot before and it seems only natural, only deserving, that she would have come round full circle.

In total silence she stares blankly at her feet, what she sees is her boots resting upon the pavement below the damp bench upon which she sits hunched.

It's empty around her, the whole city feels bereft of life and broken, or is that just her? It's an apt description for both. The quietude of the Seines embankment where she's currently sat only contributes to her depression.

The world which had seemed only hours earlier to be full of beautiful, enticing prospects has flickered out into a hollow mockery and she's been left like a flame attempting to burn in a vacuum.

The magnitude of her situation is a strange thing, it's entirely self-created and ironically she knows that nothing has 'actually' changed tonight in real terms… but the truth is her world has been altered irrevocably.

She'd been so convinced that come the morning she'd be seeing things anew and yet somehow she's ended up back in her old world, the grey lonely world in which she spends every waking minute alone.

It's a world she knows will be without him forever.

In this limbo she's sat for what must've been hours, blankly staring at the imposing stone walls that line the great river before her, replete with an impressive set of technicolor lichen stains.

Time itself seems to have fallen away into an irrelevance, the only measurements she feels she has right now are her feelings and they're almost certainly inaccurate.

From the position of the large crescent moon which shines from between the wispy – almost smoky – remains of yesterdays rain clouds which move steadily on their way over her head, she figures it must easily be sometime in the small hours already.

This would also account for the execution site like silence which pervades the sleeping city. Or perhaps her imagination is running away with itself again?

She feels the fold of her arms tighten protectively over her breasts and unconsciously her hands rub in vein against her upper arms in an attempt to warm her skin. It's bitter cold now and the inner warmth from the wine she perhaps foolishly gulped down before she made her escape into this personal hell has begun to ware off, leaving her not only to face the full wrath of the night, but the dull headache of dehydration too.

She makes no sound through any of this, she's not shaking, nor does she cry or make any outward sign. Her mind is uncharacteristically blank. The only thing she can muster is to sit and listen to Maruis's words going round and round her head like a phonograph tauntingly skipping.

_"_''_Ponine here's my best friend, in fact she's like a sister to me."_

How strange that such friendly, charming and all round pleasant words that would delight so many, came as such a crashing blow.

The feeling in the one moment had been incredible, like her heart had withered away inside her, like a ship had sunk within her bowels, like she'd tried to take a breath under water and felt the swimming rush in her head.

Although in the moment the impact had felt muted, it'd still been equivalent to a sledgehammer striking a pottery anvil, the pieces had flown so far and wide with such violence that the aftermath could only be comprehended when the dust cleared, something Eponine knows with horror is yet to happen.

It'd all been going so well too…

She'd sat down opposite Marius dumping her coat in a creased pile next to her, he'd appeared so pleased, his presence had given off an inviting aura which had pulled Eponine in further, convinced her of where tonight was going. She hadn't felt fear then, only a strange sensation akin to floating; she was going to say it…

Marius had poured her the glass of wine he'd promised and slid it towards her with a stylish flick of his wrist and a conspiratorial smile, Eponine had made full use of it, taking a bigger gulp than she perhaps should have – especially as she'd then noticed the complete emptiness in her stomach as she felt the dry tasting wine slip through her throat.

Everything around them had, to Eponine at least, faded into insignificance, the music and chatter was phased out and the atmosphere heated, or maybe that was the alcohol?

"Free at last" he'd said "I must confess, I do worry for you here sometimes, I've seen how places like this can get…" Eponine tried not to beam _'he does think about me!' _she squealed internally.

Eponine cringes as she remembers that, the sort of cringe that tingles across her skin torques her jaw and forces her spine to curl. She feels judged on such a basic level by some transcendent force, like she's been relegated to the title of world jester.

It seemed so pathetic!

A sudden shot of anger fuelled adrenaline jumps her from her perch and sends her striding with wide step and a hateful scowl to the embankment wall.

It's freezing; slimy embrace greets her through her clothes as she presses up against it and with her calves straining leans over and peers into the rushing abyss below.

The Seine looks as turbulent to her as she feels below the surface of shocks numbing effect. Currents rush here and there across the surface of the engorged river creating twirling waves and exaggerated ripples and all the while it does so with minimal sound, the loud roar of the rain hitting its surface having been lost.

Eponine stares for sometime, watching the patterns of foam which catch the moonlight expanding and being broken up amongst it all. The waters movements are hypnotic and in giving it her attention, it is just that little bit easier to pretend this isn't actually her reality.

Her breath creates steaming clouds before her and the gentle cold wind catches the strands of her hair which she didn't manage to capture as she had pulled her cap back over her head while hoping against hope it would render her invisible.

_'Invisible' _

The word repeats quietly to her, is that what she wants? Right now it'd be nice, to simply and quietly slip off and make a course for somewhere far away.

A whole series of images flashes before her, she sees herself once again destitute in an unfamiliar street, sitting hunched against a wall while people purposely avoid looking at her.

In the next she stands in a muddy recently ploughed field, the smell of damp earth surrounds her as she stares at the line of skeletal winter trees in the distance and raises her arms to greet first falling snowflakes.

The following she's older – much older in fact – and she kneels before a roaring fire in a haunting familiar stone walled room.

They're strange fantastical flashes, full of sorrow and yet, freedom.

Perhaps she could have them if she fled now? It wouldn't be too difficult. She simply has to find the nearest railway yard, scale the wall – something that with her long nimble legs and well trained fingers wouldn't present a huge challenge – and stow away aboard one of the already loaded goods trains, just sitting ready and waiting for dawn when the engine would arrive to take the cargo, and away she'd go with it, leaving the scenes of her pain behind.

But… there's always a 'but' and it's a big one, where would it take her? And more to the point, would any of those situations – assuming she somehow got to live them – be less painful than if she goes home now and wakes up tomorrow in a bed rather than in pastures new where she would have even less than the little she has here?

She knows them well, this has often been an escape for her, imagining a place where all is safe and yet unfulfilling. It's the exact same reason why she's spent so many walks home from work pretending she's walking with Marius, gently holding a conversation with him that only she hears and in which only her own voice speaks his replies.

Marius… it again comes back to him.

A small part of her feels angry and bitter towards him, but no, she can't be, none of this is his fault after all. Hell he doesn't even know how she feels, even now after all that.

The scene starts up to her once more and she can't fight it off.

"It's really not that bad, beats what I had any day" she'd said simply.

"You impress me 'Ponine" he'd said looking directly into her eyes, her blush deepened.

"Now you're the one teasing Monsieur, I do believe I wouldn't be here thanks to you" she'd responded, her eye's falling to the slightly sticky surface of the table – evidently Edith had been shirking the job of wiping the tables once a set of patrons left, again…

Marius's head lowered and she found his eye's now on her level as he eyed her wryly "don't be modest, I might've given you directions, but you did the rest yourself."

Eponine had hated the way her voice tremors as she says "it still took two…" There it was, implication, would he understand? He heart and time in unison seemed to stop.

Nothing, no flicker of understanding in his eyes, no motion nor change in his demeanour, only innocent amusement playing on his pleasant features "we could argue about it all night but I still say you give yourself too little credit."

He'd paused and she'd sat ridged and still. "Anyhow tell me how you've been? It must be let's see… urm… 3 weeks? Since we last met?" he'd said before raising his glass and taking a sip before gazing expectantly over the lip of his glass.

_'3 weeks and 5 days' _thinks Eponine, she knows them well and each one has hurt, but still Marius obviously cares, he wouldn't have asked her that question if he genuinely didn't want to know.

"Not much Monsieur" she concedes feeling painfully aware of how uninteresting it makes her sound, even to herself. She's long prided herself on having a story to tell here and there or being generally somebody who can imply with subtle wit that they know more than they let on, in many a situation it's true, but not with Marius, it never works with Marius…

He's too straight laced in comparison to those whom want something or on whom innuendo has an effect, Marius for all his suave gentlemanly behaviour and enlightened attitudes, is still far more innocent than she's been for a very long time.

It's a taint Eponine feels on a fundamentally deep level too and it doesn't help a bit right now.

"I've just been working" she settles on.

_'And dreaming of you.'_

Then she remembers something else "I did see a film the other day though" she'd forgotten about that… It wasn't something that had left a lasting impression, just more something to say that happened to be true, she'd just happened to have a few hours to kill after a morning shift, a handful of spare Francs – still not a concept she was used to – and no will to go back to her solitude.

Marius however perked up greatly, Eponine knew he liked the cinema as did most men of his social circle. "Oh really what did you see?" he asks excitedly, suddenly Eponine again feels thrown for she hadn't really committed it to memory.

"Some American film about a woman and her son" she says trying to remember the details, for most of it she'd sat imagining Marius was in the seat next to her with his hand quietly placed upon her own.

"I think the leading lady was played by a German woman…" she says scraping her memory for any detail she can give to satisfy him "she was blonde"

_'and more beautiful than I could ever hope to be'_

He pauses for a second and she see's him running through a list of possibilities before he asks "Marlene Dietrich?" The name does sound familiar to Eponine "sounds about right, I think it might've been… yeah"

Marius chuckles "Courfeyrac – an old friend of mine – had quite a thing for her."

Eponine smiles too, she can imagine the teasing that would've come with such knowledge, it's also a rare insight into Marius's past on which he's usually so button lipped.

That thought raises another question, one that she also wants to ask but suddenly she's completely aware this isn't getting her any closer to confessing her feelings to him.

She swishes the contents of her glass distractedly, how does she punch through and get to a point? She can't just blurt it out, she knows that's a terrible idea but being hesitant isn't good either… Perhaps small talk for a while is the answer.

"Why do you always buy the same type of wine?" she asks the first question that pops into her head. It's the mention of his friends that did it; she remembers the association between the two he'd mentioned.

Marius looks down at his glass and suddenly she sees a sorrow on him that's both new and unwelcome. _'I just had to ask…' _ "Just wondering… you mentioned once something about friends?" she offers quickly attempting to make the question seem innocent.

Marius looks up and she sees pain. "Sorry I…" she says quickly, if a priest could hear the colourful assortment her mind shouts at her she's sure he'd drag her by the ear all the way to the exorcism chamber.

"No that's okay" he offers with a slight smile "it was Grantaire's favourite wine" Eponine says nothing, this isn't the first time she's heard that name, but she's never pushed it, however this time he goes into more detail "he used to drink several bottles a night… drove Enjolras mad."

Eponine could see he was now faraway, in a time passed. It was pitiful in a way, she had no idea who this 'Enjolras' was in fact she didn't remember hearing that name before…

"Enjolras?…" she murmurs aloud. She had merely been trying out the unknown name on her tongue but Marius whose cheeks broke into a meek smile took it as a question. "An old friend of mine who… let's just say last time I saw him it didn't end so well. Badly in fact…"

For a moment she can't help but wonder... but then... another time, that conversation while undeniably intriguing is not the one she wants to have right now.

Enjolras, whomever he is and however interesting he might be, can wait.

Eponine gently placed her hand upon his in a daring move that even she wasn't quite sure where the guts for which came from. Marius however didn't flinch away for which Eponine was incredibly glad, but instead offered a thanking glance.

"Sorry didn't mean to bring up a sore subject, you don't have to say if you don't want to" she says quickly, suddenly all she wants to do is bury this topic so she can see him smile once more.

"No it's fine" he insists with a nod. "I just try not to think about it…"

There are suddenly so many questions, it's like a whole new avenue has opened up. Who were they? The friends he speaks of and what happened to them? What does he mean by 'badly'? The answers she knows aren't strictly any of her business but she can't help but wonder.

They're quiet for a moment before Marius gently squeezes her hand, quickly she removes it from his realizing the sudden impropriety, thing seem in a muddle all of a sudden, her head nearly begins spinning.

"Least I've got you now eh? 'Ponine?" he says taking another sip of wine, his mood seems to lighten as he says it but Eponine knows she's witnessed the shadow of something bigger that she'll not be able to forget from here on out.

'_You can have me in so many ways…'_

She nods with a smile, this would be a perfect opportunity to say something she realizes and her breath catches in her throat, the tingling in her left arm is awful and she's certain the bursting feeling in her chest is starting to crush – she wouldn't be shocked if she were to have a panic attack soon.

Yet, suddenly Marius is apparently ahead of her… "Actually 'Ponine, in that vein there's something I've been meaning to tell you" he says leaning closer and Eponine feels a strange magnetism that pulls her towards him, her stomach turns solid in terror and sudden nerves… could… could he be about to tell her he feels the same?

Does she dare to hope?

Suddenly it all opens up in front of her, for a wonderful split second she's convinced. It makes sense, why he's so charming, why he plays along with her and why he cares… he loves her to! She for a split second feels that if she were to die there and then, it would for once be as a happy woman.

"Oh aren't you two the cutest!" comes a loud voice from Eponine's left, its high pitched, alcoholically lubricated and in a word, irritating. Both their heads snap around in unison. The drunken girl she observed earlier from behind the bar, the one whose date or chaperone's attempts at talk were falling on deaf ears.

Except now she's standing staring at them – or as close enough as she can manage, her gaze actually looks to be staring at a point just over Marius's shoulder.

"Evening Mademoiselle, can we help you with something?" Marius had said, it sounded polite ostensibly but Eponine knew it was the closest thing to open anger he usually conjured.

Eponine had watched guardedly for a few seconds, this unwelcome turn of events had knocked her completely out of the comfort zone she had almost reached.

Up close she see's this newcomer has mousey brown hair in a fashionable crimped bob complete with shining pins, her make-up is skilfully applied and she wears a dress far prettier with it's exaggerated collar which shows off her shapely clavicles. She's annoyingly pretty and exactly the sort of girl Eponine could imagine Marius – and her stomach drops as she does so – walking arm in arm with through the city streets.

Marius for his part however seems to have been made awkward by this turn of events, Eponine has never been so glad to see the twitch of his fingers he's displaying now which is always a sure sign he doesn't know what to do, perhaps it's aided by the fact that this girl smells as if she's washed herself in brandy.

"Oh nothing specific Monsieur" she smiles attempting to flounce but merely – to Eponine's eye's anyhow – make herself look more annoying, "I was just wondering what a fine looking man such as yourself was…" her words broke for a second as she let out a loud hiccup before continuing " was… doing in a place like this with his lady friend?"

_'Really? What the hell do you care?' _Eponine thought but Marius looked amused. "Oh me and 'Ponine here were just catching up." Eponine kept silent, the only thing that would come from her right now would be acid tongued and probably upset Marius.

The drunk woman however smirked in a way that set Eponine's teeth on edge and said in a way she evidently thought was sly "how sweet you are but you don't have to be embarrassed about being on a date." Marius's face seemed to turn red in a matter of seconds, his fluster would've been cute if this whole situation wasn't so bad.

Yet the woman's attention turned from Marius then and fell upon Eponine who held her green eyed stare with a level dislike that she could see disconcerted her. Not enough however for she still spoke as recognition dawned on her "wait aren't you the bar-woman?"

Eponine's hackles were now well and truly up, she didn't like this intrusion at all and could see where it was going, this girl obviously planned to hit on Marius, that could be the only explanation Eponine could come up with and as she'd expected her words were caustic "yes and I'm starting to regret it…"

The silence suddenly grew thick around them, Marius turned in his seat and shot her a horrified look, instantly Eponine felt guilt hit her, perhaps that had been a poor show. "Sorry" she mouthed to him silently with a pleading look which he seemed to accept, before with a certain amount of shame swallowing she turned and said "sorry" once more except this time out loud.

"No worries" the woman says although the hostility in her tone was evident, perhaps it was deserved but still… they hold each other's judgement for a few seconds before she turns back to Marius and Eponine's face reverts to a scowl.

"Well handsome perhaps I am bothering you…" she took a moment to compose herself by rocking on her heels "just let me say that you two are an adorable couple." Eponine felt her shoulder blades hunch, there was nothing 'wrong' with that statement on the surface, nothing at all… in fact perhaps it should have been a blessing if in the eyes of others her and Marius looked as if they fitted together?

But, as was so often the case, it wasn't.

The words came with a clatter that changed the dynamic and took it from her control. All subtlety was gone, the Rubicon was crossed and now she would have a far harder job cutting through the embarrassment of the whole thing to tell Marius the truth. The sudden will to deny such was powerful, even to Eponine, who nearly caught herself clamouring to state that this girl had misunderstood.

It had been Marius who'd spoken, he seemed flustered but his words were confident and truthful. Eponine knew what she saw as he spoke, his body language was one of that securely stating a fact, his attention didn't flitter to her even for a second for any sort of assurance and there could be no doubt he was stating his perspective on the whole thing. "Couple…?" "We're not together in that way. 'Ponine here's my best friend, in fact she's like a sister to me."

"Oh… well then" the girl had said bemused as he head had lulled.

Oddly, it seemed like an appropriate statement, Eponine felt everything inside her freeze. There wasn't a crushing feeling of heartbreak or a sudden blackout in her head right then. 'Oh…' seemed like the fundamentally best way to sum up how it felt. Her questions had been answered …

She sat numb in her seat, unmoving, no longer looking at Marius but through the glass mount in the headboard behind him along the line of wooden booths to the main window, outside which glare from the lights mounted upon the front of the establishment in an attempt make it seem appealing, blur her vision.

The sound around her is seemingly muted and she feels something inside her gurgling away, Marius's words have had a serious impact but it's like any event with enormity, it comes all of a sudden and its results can only be felt when the often metaphorical dust settles, even though the damage was dealt within a fraction of that time.

From somewhere behind Eponine, an exasperated male voice she only half registers cries "Evette!" "I can't leave you alone for a minute without you embarrassing yourself can I?" The girl turns as her company emerges from the direction of the toilets and says defensively "I was just making friends!"

Eponine is still staring into space, she doesn't look to observe the newcomer, she's only looking at what's directly in front of her still, the scene plays out to her only through her ears as Evette's boyfriend or whomever he's meant to be says with an awkward hiss "no. You're bothering this good man and his lady friend."

Marius shakes his head, Eponine makes no motion but she hears the other man amongst the girls whines say "I'm sorry Monsieur – Mademoiselle" before their presence fades from her surroundings and peripheral vision.

Suddenly everything in front of her is cold and dark, it dawns on her there's little now to say since it seems the entire purpose of this meeting has been pulled from under her feet and left her reeling.

Her wine glass she'd noticed was still in her hands and its contents looked tempting, the next half an hour had felt like a bitter sting. Sudden loss, it tastes like the unsatisfied dryness of a wine she sudden realizes tastes vile.

Her mind shifts back to the present when she feels a single tear run down her cheek.

Its heat is unmistakable against the biting cold.

She didn't even really say goodbye to Marius she realizes, she just sort of… ran away at the first opportunity… this realization makes her cower in a newly inflamed self loathing for an extended moment, the whole situation is awful.

Perhaps however the worst of it is she knows the loss only prospective, there's no way she can justify it to herself, let alone others… the world is a harsh place, whose got time for a heartbroken dreamer of a girl?

The answer is of course a categorical nobody.

The gentle wind from earlier she realizes picked up into icy gusts which have begun coming in from off the river as she's been wading through the events of the night. They lift the first of autumns leaves which lay upon the damp paving slabs and sends them spiralling upwards and around with distinctive patter. It also goes straight under the hem of her coat and penetrates the thin fabric of her dress.

She begins to shiver slightly as her arms lock around herself even tighter than before, she's aware just how cold it really is now, her hands have taken on a purple tint around her knuckles and in her fingers she can almost feel the bone for her flesh is so numb.

Rubbing her palms together violently she knows she's let herself slip, a year ago there's no way she would've allowed her attention to run away…

A part of her wonders if she's lost sight of reality… the dark streets are a world she's inhabited before now. Before she moved out in a new world, the world she's been inhabiting this past half year, the one which has been extinguished like the glorious summer days that the changing seasons have killed.

She steps back from the wall and takes in her setting anew.

The trees which line the walkway are colourless in the dark but their leaves droop from their branches, the fluted black metal columns of the street lamps which with uniform precision are placed along the walls flank glow invitingly into the distance in a direction she has no specific reason to go.

A part of her is tempted to step towards it; her head fills with taunting words, her chest aches. Marius won't love her; he's probably just been nice to her this whole time out of pity… the realistic case that this isn't true holds no sway on her at that moment.

She stands at a crossroads, its decision time now, this moment. She can either wander into the night and unknown, leaving it all behind. Or, she can slink back to the boarding house and climb into her bed, sleep and be as miserable as ever tomorrow.

She finds herself genuinely agonised, her choice unmade. Disappearing as she earlier thought, getting out of peoples lives, living inside her head once more, it's entirely underwhelming but tried, tested and safe… They're three things she craves, nobody will mourn her and she can guess where it'll end.

She'll walk in shadow seeing only strangers until the morning, eventually when her legs simply won't carry her further she'll slump down upon one of the many doorsteps she passes – the ones that she knows are uniform in their dirty uninviting nature– contort into a ball and sleep, or if she's lucky die…

Or better yet, do such in the biggest pot hole she can find, then she'd save somebody the trouble of digging her grave…

All ways she'll never have to see any of the sources of her pain ever again.

Yet still the situation doesn't feel over, there's no way she can justify the feeling yet it holds her like a vice and prevents her from taking such rash action. Its pinch hurts her and keeps the soles of her boots glued heavily to the spot.

She let's out a broken whimper and turns on the spot several times, there is nobody and nothing to guide her choice, only the faint sounds of the water and weather coupled with the scattered lights of a sleeping city shroud her, leaving her to stand alone.

He head bows, she feels herself shaking too from within. Fatigue catches her and all her coherence falls away in a droll sensation of loss and an image of her bed with its warm caress.

That sways it for now, the internal battle is by no means over and she knows it as she turns away from the regressive path to her old life. The fight will rage for days, weeks and possibly months past this tired stalemate.

But action speaks here and Eponine turns and walks away in the direction of home leaving nothing but the faint presence of melancholy in her wake as the final figure in the waterside setting disappears into the dark streets beyond.

* * *

_September 9th, 1936 – Two Years Earlier_

"_The success of the uprising depended on the insurgents reaching the centre of Paris as quickly as possible and seizing the town hall."_

Enjolras studied those words carefully, examined each one and weighed them. The scene played out before him in his mind, almost like poetry in motion. While the young firebrand never showed an overt interest in much that wasn't firmly grounded in reality, his lonely childhood and bibliophilic tendencies had granted him a strong imagination when he cared to use it.

Paris, 1832 he thinks. The day of General Lamarque's funeral procession.

An era in which revolution had led to betrayal, an era when the poor visibly starved in summer and also froze in the winter on the streets, as the wealthy rode past in lavish, velvet trimmed carriages.

Lamarque had been the only man in the French government to speak for the people, the only one who had any real idea of the trials that faced those at the bottom on an hourly basis.

He'd been a beacon of hope, a symbol and prepared to fight their case to those who didn't care. He'd been a great man, revered and popular, yet on June 5th his body lay scoured from the ravages of Cholera in a tricolour draped coffin.

People wept as the black horses pulled his wheeled tomb through the mucky streets.

Urchins rubbed shoulders with the wealthy whom came to pay their respects. Rags and riches mingled. The atmosphere was melancholy but under it was fortitude and intent. It'd burnt brightly within the eyes of the workers and student groups whom wore the revolutionary cockade upon their lapels or hats, their plans had been cemented.

Through the various streets the parade had travelled and as it did so the hands of the clock took those watching closer to their destinies. Nerves laced with excitement and mingled with romanticised memories of the storming of the Bastille or the peasants march on Versailles almost half a century earlier.

Their poetic sense of history had been well demonstrated for as their hero's last journey took him into the Place de la Bastille, the wide, open and desolate square which at that time had been in a state of decay due to the lack of anything built to replace the infamous prison, events had kicked off.

People had jumped barriers into the parade, cries of 'Viva le France!' had gone up as had the red flags and tricolours emblazoned with revolutionary symbols. In seconds the sober silence had been replaced by song and shouts. Men and women had run this way and that bracing themselves for the storm.

The previously empty streets had been full of a thronged and enraged mass all committed to the establishment of a Second Republic, Paris would fall and the people would rise, it was doubtless.

Soon the fast sound of hooves as the cavalry attempted in vein to restore order was silenced amongst the outbreak of gunshots.

Somebody shouted "to the barricades!" and within moments notice armed groups were weaving through the city streets carrying all the contents of every building they could gain access to and piling them as high as possible so as to block the ways, before they mounted their impromptu battlements and awaited the counter-attack.

All the while they were entirely convinced that the next day a red flag would hang above the Kings palace. Liberté, égalité and fraternité would return to France in a blaze of glory. The rebels had waited with baited breath, their wait had been short, their reception brutal.

They'd fought like tigers, their belief unshakeable and their faith in the people immovable. But, they'd been abandoned, the people hadn't risen. Fear had triumphed, in one bloodbath after another, the barricades fell.

The national guard had moved in, the hangman's noose in their hands, and nimbly as their cannons had blown aside the barricades and debris from which, alongside their bullets, had torn through the foes flesh, they had tightened the rope and finally released the trap door in the platform with the use of the summary executions they so eagerly carried out.

The revolutionary's blood had run thick through the curbs and between the cobbles.

Enjolras feels the pull of anger as he imagines it, he has no trouble placing himself in the fray, there are plenty of people who'd have him executed simply for his beliefs today a century later – let alone for acting on them – he has no doubt that had he taken part in the June Rebellion – something of which he's doubtless – his death would've been assured.

The paper in his hand is one of the few he has with him, his travel case which sits awkwardly upon the metal rack suspended from the wall above his bunk for the night was just too full for him to consider bringing more than a couple of his favourites.

'The June Revolution: The Course of the Paris Uprising' by Frederic Engels however is of the utmost importance to Enjolras, far too important to leave behind in Paris. It's a guide on how not to do a revolution.

The brave men and women of the barricades had failed to realize that they only had a brief window to make their case seem plausible, the lack of affirmative action as Engels encapsulated in their failure to move on the town hall and the seat of power in the opening hours sealed their downfall.

Feuilly knows more about the events than Enjolras himself and the two have discussed them many times but the conversations despite being interesting and entirely affirming, also without fail lead to the dead end of agreement on most subjects.

However, it's of renewed relevance to Enjolras for now he's putting himself in the situation, it's here, the day has come.

All around him the proof of that is evident. The basic white sheets of his bunk are embroidered with a railways companies logo, the wooden panels of this small compartment rock slightly in the trains motion, the omnipresent clatter-clack of the wheels below and the puffing of the locomotive upfront add the flavour to the general atmosphere of adventure and expectancy that exists within a moving train.

He's alone at this moment, Combeferre whom had been allocated as his room-mate for night – this after a rowdy round of bartering over whom bunked with who on the concourse at Paris Montparnasse station earlier that day – had vanished to the dining car some time earlier and was yet to reappear.

As they'd sat upon their luggage, their eye's darting regularly and uncontrollably to the clock above their heads, while their ears prickling for the sound of one of the staff in their military inspired greatcoats and matching kepis to blow shrilly through their small tin whistles and shout to announce their train was ready to board, Enjolras had wondered if they actually recognised the gravity of their choices?

Marius had… and for it he'd been the target of many filthy worded character judgements by the others which Enjolras had wondered if or not were actually meant.

He certainly still felt let down by his freckly friend, but at the same time if Marius had been unsure of his choice, how reliable would he have been on the battlefield?

Enjolras now can't help but feel that perhaps by removing himself as a variable from the situation Marius has done them a backhanded favour. Furthermore, he also wonders if the others could've perhaps done with being a little more thoughtful like him, who knows what they'll be facing soon enough?

The situation isn't going to be pretty… He considers this for a time but it's not a new pastime for him, every day of the last few weeks has had a moment in which he's sat down and questioned himself, he'd consider himself a fool if he didn't.

Still the answer is again the same, if he doesn't go to Spain what will stop his nightmare coming true? The cause is bigger than him, in the grand scheme of things he doesn't matter if his death ultimately turns out to be part of a bigger victory. There isn't a single part of him which doubts this and that's that.

He reabsorbs himself for a time in the thin bound journal before him however the light is beginning to fade and making out the print presently becomes more and more of a challenge. Finally when the gloom obscures too much for even his sharp vision to discern he places it beside his leg and looks around his compartment once more.

It's relatively simple but also pleasant. It's been a long time since Enjolras has been aboard a sleeper train, when he'd been very little he'd been aboard the Orient Express when his father had taken him and his mother with him on a business trip to Italy.

His memory of the event is sketchy for he'd been young – no older than nine – mainly he remembers his father talking of Mozart with an Englishman who wore a bowler hat and brown tweed as they puffed upon cigars and nursed glasses of brandy while he watched the Alps fly past through the window.

Their compartment had been a luxurious affair of silk curtains, soft mattresses and feather quilts. By contrast his current setting is one of basic window blinds, simple unobtrusive furnishings and green seats that pull out into beds, the length of which is just that couple of inches too short so that Enjolras's feet poke off the edge if he lays stretched out, still naturally being a side sleeper means it doesn't bother him.

He's still deep in these thoughts when he hears the compartment door slide open with its distinctive rolling sound and Combeferre's light silhouette appears in the light from the corridor.

"'Jolras?" he asks peering into the compartment before his friends eye's finally see him in the gloom, Enjolras watches the unsure look on his turn into one of confusion as he steps in. "Any reason your sitting in the dark?" he asks.

Enjolras sits up and carefully places the journal beside him before looking at his fellow Les Amis scramble for the lights pull string. "No, I was just thinking and it got dark as I was doing so" he says matter-of-factly.

Combeferre continuing in his search – mainly with his hands – didn't turn as he spoke with a slight distraction in his voice, "sounds about right, you're not going to be joining us in the dining car I'm guessing then?"

Enjolras says nothing. "Ha" murmurs Combeferre as he locates the dangling cord and pulls on it, with a slight click and flicker the light which hangs above their heads illuminates and a new light fills the compartment.

Combeferre finally turns and stands entirely visible for the first time and they observe each other. He looks much as he normally does; his dirty blonde hair which no matter how vigorously he combs it always reverts to its natural slight shagginess is re-establishing itself with several stray strands, while a look of contemplation sits upon his angular features as he awaits an answer.

Enjolras stands then in a swift motion, feeling his knees click slightly as he does so "perhaps in a while, I'm not really hungry at the moment" he says as he adjusts his braces under his waistcoat, socialising is low on his list of priorities right now there's so much to think about and consider, not a small part of him wishes to be left alone.

Combeferre on the other hand doesn't seem to be in a hurry for he pulls off his blue blazer, slings it inelegantly onto the hook at the end of his own luggage rack, drops with a thump onto his bunk and leans back against the wall "well dinner hasn't been served yet, we're all just having a liquid starter at the moment."

There's a pause, Enjolras knows what he's up to, Combeferre might not be the most boisterous of their number but nobody can question his determination or patience. Enjolras merely feigns indifference as he pulls on his own jacket, walks to the window and begins gazing at the passing shadowy scenery.

All's quiet in the compartment for a while before Combeferre sighs in realization that it's got to be him who continues the narrative, Enjolras appreciates the fact he chooses to be frank. "'Jolras you should come, have a bit of fun, it's the last night before it all kicks off."

"That's exactly why I'd prefer to have my wits about me" Enjolras counters not turning around, he watches as the shapes of trees and fields glide by beyond the window, the sun has nearly set now, the blaze of orange and red in the west now provides the only natural light while the rest of the sky has turned ink blue and the first stars make their entrance.

There is little more to say, a hangover is something he's never experienced before and not something he plans to start his first day as a solider of the Republic with…

Combeferre sighs and for a moment the only sounds that can be heard again are those of the train itself. Finally he speaks again "well I know better than to try and change your mind" he pauses and he does so the sound of the engines whistle drifts back to them. When it fades he continues "but I also happen to know you and while you hide it well, I know when something's bothering you."

That actually almost raises a smile from Enjolras. Combeferre is perceptive and as close as Enjolras has ever had to a confident. The two of them along with Courfeyrac have always been the three most committed Les Amis members, in fact it was the three of them who'd masterminded their Bastille day 'festivities' two years ago…

In a way, it's nice to have somebody he can confide in if he chooses so, even if it's not a common occurrence. Still today he doesn't feel the need to go into detail and merely says with sardonic implication "something's always bothering me Combeferre and right now I doubt I need give you three guesses as to what…"

Combeferre chuckles which wasn't quite the reaction Enjolras had been aiming for, "what part of it? The philosophical or the practical?"

In turn that question amuses Enjolras "both" he states levelly but with the tug of a smile playing at his lips, it seems like such an understatement that he can't help but laugh "although perhaps the former at the moment" he speaks his thoughts, for after all having not arrived yet, all that's playing on his mind is technically theory, although "I'm sure the latter will get it's chance soon enough."

A heavy pause greets him in response, that statement was quite dark he realizes, but it also happens to be correct. He hears Combeferre make a slight 'hmm' sound which portrays equal parts resignation and good humour before he says "well then all the more reason you should join us then like I said, after all 'leisure is the mother of philosophy'"

Ah, a quote, classic Combeferre there, sometimes irritating but also surprisingly effective. Enjolras turns at that and takes Combeferre's hazel eyed gaze with a stony pleasure "who was that again Thomas Paine?" he asks.

A grin crosses Combeferre's faces and in a flash of striped shirt sleeves and grey trousers he crosses both his arms behind and his legs one over the other in a motion of victory "you're slipping 'Jolras it was Hobbes" he says with an air of banter.

Enjolras himself just watches showing nothing, he's aware that Combeferre's knowledge of philosophy outmatches his own although that Combeferre himself doesn't quite believe that sometimes to the point of feeling intellectually challenged. Combeferre relaxes however and continues "they're wise words though"

Enjolras could argue against that if he wished but right now he doesn't see the point and realizes also that he can't realistically expect to be here alone all evening. "Indeed like I said, perhaps later, when is dinner being served from anyway?" he asks before conceding "I should probably eat something."

Combeferre seems satisfied by this. "I think about seven. We're due to arrive into Orleans at about not long after and we'll be waiting there for half an hour so… that's what a porter told me anyway" he says as he twirls his finger - a tick he always has when he's talking from memory.

"Fair enough" says Enjolras crossing his arms, he had subtly hoped this would be enough to persuade Combeferre to leave him alone for a little longer at least. Apparently he was see through in this attempt too he realizes as Combeferre's façade finally drops into seriousness "honestly 'Jolras what is it? I won't tell the others" he says without reserve.

Enjolras observes Combeferre for a moment. It's obvious this subject won't be dropped and there is no real reason why he shouldn't share it beyond his own reticence. That being his assessment he just tells the unembellished truth "I'm just wondering, will it be successful and what if it's not?"

Combeferre nearly jolts upright and looks at him aghast for a few moments, Enjolras had expected as much, usually he'd keep such thoughts to himself but Combeferre 'had' asked. Enjolras watches his unsure look gather and hears his voice waver just a little as he says leaning forward "Enjolras you can't really be getting defeatist before we've even started… surely?"

Enjolras doesn't move nor take his eyes off his comrade. "No Combeferre, not defeatist…" he says calmly voicing the thoughts that have played through his head since he first began taking the idea seriously. "Just realistic" he continues "the Republic has the moral cause and the heart but while it's easy to dismiss the nationalists as reactionary scum – which they are, but none the less – they happen to be well armed reactionary scum who have international backing the Republic does not."

Combeferre sighs darkly with a nod of understanding, his shoulder slump and he smooths the creases on his grey waistcoat as he speaks "I know, put like that it sounds bleak" he looks back up, this time more confidently "but then Lenin didn't have the worlds backing either and yet the Soviet Union exists now."

Enjolras knows the point he's making and he's not wrong, but he can't help but grimace and voice his thoughts all the same. "Combeferre, you're an enlightened thinker and I know you like me have heard the horrifying rumours of what's going on in the Soviet Union, we have to prevent Spain from going that way as much as we do it's fall to fascism."

Combeferre nodded with a dark look "agreed" he sighs and continues "all I was saying is that sometimes those with the odds stacked against them turn situations around, but then you know that."

Enjolras takes his turn to nod, albeit in cooler fashion. "Right. Which means we're going to have to make it clear to everyone there if they haven't realised it for themselves" he says, his authoritative tone growing by the second as it always did when he spoke on such matters. Combeferre he realized had moved to the edge of his bunk "hello Enjolras" he grinned.

Enjolras stood levelly observing his friend for a moment before he spoke again and said something both truthful and meant to surprise "and for that I'm going to need your help more than ever."

It was true, Combeferre was the closest Enjolras had to a right hand and was almost certainly the most overtly intellectual of them, in an odd way he missed Marius at that moment which wasn't without reproach, Marius had always been good at public speaking.

"Woah" said Combeferre shifting backwards his being taken aback was evident "might I remind you that you're the charismatic speech giver of the two of us, I don't think you need me that much…"

His attempt at humility wasn't going to wash with Enjolras "don't be modest" he counters "everyone has their part to play that's what we're fighting for isn't it? To secure everyone a chance for a better life without oppression?" his voice is rising steadily and he feels the familiar ache of suppressed anger and conviction growing in his gut as always.

Combeferre who by this point is sitting ridged up right hanging on Enjolras's words nods once more "that's the idea" he says and Enjolras can hear the confidence in his voice has risen, it begins to ebb away once more however as he continues "it's just making the people of Spain see it that way" there's a pause and Enjolras regards his friend with grim understanding.

Combeferre however breaks into a smile as he finally stands and says complete sincerity as he points gently in towards Enjolras himself "they've already seen it, they just need to get a reminder, which if anybody can help do, it's you." If flattery was a concept that meant anything to Enjolras he would've felt it then, however in reality he feels very little reaction beyond a stony sense of affirmation that people can have faith in him.

"Considering the alternative I don't see how they can't already" Enjolras observes dryly in response. From his perspective there isn't, how could anybody refuse the freedom from oppression of the Republic over the overt authoritarianism of the Nationalists? It's simply not a choice in Enjolras's mind and that's all there is to it.

Combeferre at that breaks into a grim laugh "then we're agreed on something else too" he says with a heavy sigh, the knowledge that there are obviously a lot of people out there who don't see things the way they do weighs heavily upon them both, neither really wants to consider the fact that it'll be turning into shooting for them soon enough.

The silence is pregnant as they observe the other, their feelings of determination and dread mutual, for once Combeferre knows what Enjolras is pondering and Enjolras knows that for once the gravity of his thoughts are shared with another.

Combeferre breaks the tension however with a mood lightening flick of his hands and a utilitarian tone "I don't think we need worry unduly right now." Enjolras watches stoically as Combeferre gives him a once over before he says "but then, I don't think you are worried are you? Not for yourself anyway…"

"No." Says Enjolras simply, again his life doesn't matter if it's lost in the advancing of the cause, he's talked the talk for a long time, now it's time to fight the fight, but despite his stone chiselled resolve he's aware it's not an automatically shared point of view. "What about you?" he asks.

Combeferre's eye's drop to his scuffed boots and Enjolras instantly picks up his conflicted state "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a tiny bit… well urm… terrified" he chuckles and looks back up, his expression speaks his nerves, but also, his resolve "but if we don't make a stand who will?"

Enjolras finally smiles, he couldn't have put it better himself and he steps forward putting his hand gently on Combeferre's shoulder "who indeed?" and both share a determined look of comradely affirmation.

"Perhaps we should go share these thoughts with the others?" Combeferre asks with a grin and Enjolras realises with a defeated sigh that he's right and he won't get more time alone after all, still after all that maybe a glass of wine wouldn't go amiss "lead the way" he says gesturing towards the door as the trains whistle shrills again.

Combeferre stands, pulls the cord once more – this time minus he undignified searching – and steps from the sudden shroud of darkness with a beckon for Enjolras to follow.

The quality darkness in the room changes all of a sudden… it fades from the illuminated natural darkness of night to a pitch darkness that it wasn't before, muffled yells and calls drift in as if from somewhere far away. Enjolras suddenly feels as if he's no longer standing but floating in a strange place he's never been before, it's not frightening as such, just bizarre…

He attempts to look around but there's nothing to see, the noises he can hear however seem to get clearer and he feels a rushing sensation building in his chest, now that does unnerve him and he feels his fight of flight instincts activate as his chest jumps and his heart begins to palpitate.

Light streams in through a crack above him and he realises his eye's are opening, the transition is almost blinding as is the pain that greets him from the lower depths of his body. It's a screaming, white hot pain that flashes through him the moment he feels it, causes him to clench in all ways and set's his teeth grinding.

Around him blurry motion can be seen and he realises the shapes are human as they dart about, one appears above him and he recognises the outline of a medic's uniform. A flash of memory returns to him in a crescendo of violence that plays out before him in trickles of blood and flashes of muzzles. The splintering sound of breaking wood, the explosions of shells and his voice yelling as the pain sears.

He hears himself cry out from his throat at that moment, it's not something he can stifle, the pain is too great and yelling helps exfoliate it slightly as does writhing.

The figure above him, still entirely anonymous for he's too blinded from the situation to take much in reaches with a strength and pushes down on his shoulders, a Spanish accented voice yells an English word that Enjolras only vaguely recognises "chloroform! chloroform!"

He cries out again desperately attempting to understand what has brought him to this strange place that he can't see, the ceiling above him looks like a foggy white sea which flashes along with pangs of colour that are strewn throughout his vision, it seems to last an age as a memory of a figure falling limply before him re-emerges with a stab of emotional pain to add to the physical.

He knows that outline and it all starts to come back, he hears himself shout the name as the figure of a woman appears above him holding a scrunched white cloth that lowers quickly towards his face, a harsh chemical smell greets him and the darkness floods back in leaving him again floating in a disintegrating world.

* * *

Enjolras jolts violently as he awakens, not unlike in the horrible end to his dream. For a split second it's as if he's still there, the shouts, darkness and fear swirling around him.

His heart hammers in his chest which he clutches at breathlessly, his body swings up in a flurry of sweat dampened sheets while his legs writhe up and down. He sucks in the cold, slightly stale air around him and sits clenched staring through blurred colour swirls for a time until his mood balances.

However as the sight of his room returns and the only sound that greets him is the silence of the small hours; the dead feeling of the slumbering and erstwhile peaceful world covers everywhere and pours over him in calming sweeps.

His body calms and his thoughts settle before falling again into practicality, he's all of a sudden wide awake and long before he should be. There won't be more sleep for hours now he thinks slightly defeated. Sleep is about the only time he had a chance of getting peace these days, although even that isn't assured as tonight proves.

Still, him waking up at this time isn't unusual, it's happened on many an occasions before now… but it's also dangerous, in the early hours of the morning when human contact is still hours away and all is silent, the dark spectre of depression easily takes hold, and once it does, it doesn't let go.

He knows these dangers well, the suicide rate of those in the convalescence home – in which his highly unpleasant two month stint ended just a few days ago – was always highest at this time. Every week some poor nurse it seemed would arrive to check on somebody only to find them hanging in the corner of their room, drowned in the bath or some similar horrific scene.

Enjolras can't lie, in dark moments he's considered it himself, but even now as he sits broken and exposed in a place that shoves into his face all the memories of everything he's failed to do and their consequences, it doesn't present itself as a serious option. Hell not even one he's prepared to entertain, for it's admitting defeat entirely.

He swings his legs from below the covers, his shoulders slump and he shivers slightly from the sudden change, if insomnia has decided to show up then he might as well just accept it he thinks.

Despite it all however he feels oddly wired. It's the type of painful alertness that comes when the mind and body intervene against sleep deprivation.

This unhealthy sense of focus allows him however to fight back and focus upon something – anything – that doesn't reside within him.

His eye's fall upon the small pile of personal objects which sits upon the desk opposite, it's just a collection of his small personal items his watch, battered brown wallet and the key to his room, all are placed randomly around a burnt and re-solidified candle but they sit directly within his path of focus and they'll do.

He regards them for a while, not really thinking about anything, merely using his study of the scene to occupy himself, it's a measured exercise in irrelevance but he follows it through none the less, his eye's attuning to the light.

Soon the room comes into better focus, the long shadows which clung beyond give way to the outlines of features, the soupy quality of the lack of light around him reduces into something thinner, everything feels just that little less oppressive, he's thankful.

It's an odd thing, the tranquillity of nothing.

Enjolras has become so used to buzzing, thinking about what he's doing, trying to be one step ahead in everything – hell it was a matter of life and death not so long ago that he did just that – but now he can't remember the last time he just stopped, blanked his mind and relaxed. Try as he might, he knows he'll never relax one hundred percent, but he can and will try, he sits still, breaths deeply and allows his shoulders to slump.

It's comfortable – physically at least – there's no denying it. Its as he's still doing this that the faintly eerie sound of the bells of Notre Dame chime a mile or so away, tolling to inform Parisians that the time is fourth hour of that morning, drifts through the walls and ceiling, it's acoustics cling for a few seconds in the emptiness around him.

He realizes upon hearing it however, that oddly enough he's missed it. That thought strikes him as odd since until just that moment when he'd heard the familiar sounds again, he'd forgotten them entirely. He swallows, there will be other forgotten things which will catch up with him now he's home, he's completely sure and he'll have to be ready for them…

Or at least try to be.

It's as he swallows however that he feels his throat dry, papery and tasting of sleep, he needs a drink of water he thinks, and no sooner has that thought occurred the need becomes unbearable. He looks towards the door, he didn't even think to bring a cup of it up with him, something he always used to make sure to do, for now he'll have to go all the way down to the kitchen.

In theory it's not a big deal, slightly irritating but nothing more.

In practice, the stairs in the dark can be treacherous.

He stands with a stretch, his neck clicks and his thigh twinges causing him to hiss. That, is not something he needs right now and he attempts as best he can to place all his weight upon the other leg, it passes within a few seconds and his teeth cease grinding, however now thanks to the sudden jolt of pain, he's begun pumping adrenaline and his heart has sped up, cool water is needed even more now.

Scowling he limps to the desk and threads his fingers through the cold metal of the candle holder, his free hand grasps around for the small box of matches that goes with it brushing over the cold metal of his watch before he feels the rough edge of the striking paper on the side.

His fingers close around it and gingerly he retrieves one, if he drops the box now they'll go everywhere, if that happens he won't see any of them again until morning and will have to take the stairs blind.

Thankfully it doesn't happen and with a scratching sound and a satisfying hiss of magnesium taking a warm flame pops into life above his fingers.

Gingerly he lights and candle and with a well practised swish extinguishes the match leaving the lingering tang of burning which wrinkles his nostrils. His dehydration isn't getting any better however and making sure the match is well and truly out – memories of singed fingers past from such mistakes having ground that lesson in – he drops it into the metal of the candle holder, places the match box into the one pocket of his slightly thin nightshirt and in the flickering light makes for the door.

The trip down the stairs is slow despite his actually being able to tell where it's safe to tread. The stairs creak horribly – several times he freezes, worried he might've awoken somebody before remembering that apart from Miss Thenadier and mademoiselle Chevrolet he's alone here tonight.

Also space is at a minimum and while in between the middle and ground floors he misjudges his arm movement, his left elbow grinds into the wall catching his funny bone and sending tingles straight up to his shoulder and down to the tips of his fingers.

He hisses, almost for one horrifying moment dropping the candle, honestly this is far more fuss than he cares to deal with right now.

The ground floor is cold and the dark between him and kitchen door is almost complete. After some groping he locates and slips it open, it sold hinges still squeak as he does and the thick walls cause his footsteps to echo as he manoeuvres around the table towards the sink.

He has to struggle with the lime scale encrusted tap for a moment but soon enough water spurts out and cupping his hands he takes several large, frenzied gulps and feels it going down in a pleasant cool sensation within his chest.

It's as he's wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he hears it, it's unmistakeable as it drifts in from the hallway, the familiar click of a key in a lock followed by footsteps and the hollow sound of the door shutting.

Enjolras goes rigid, his mind again throws back to instant suspicion, within a second adrenaline has kicked in and with his still wet fingers he physically puts the candle out before facing into the dark, silent, observing, all the while his heart pounding.

He can barely see into the hall, the kitchen door is only ajar, yet now from the small gap he feels rush of even colder air which smells unmistakably of outside flow in with the newcomer, feeling it prickle on his skin. He stands statuesque, his ears straining, but following that he hears nothing whatsoever.

He wonders if his mind is playing tricks on him once more, hallucinations have become something he's not unfamiliar with these days, although if this is one, it lacks the freaky impaired atmosphere that they usually come with.

That's what makes him doubt it.

He remains silent, his ears prickling for anything, the quiet drags for what feels like an age before he hears it. It's muffled and small but there none the less, a sob.

Well that he didn't expect… although then again, he hadn't been sure exactly 'what' he'd been expecting…

It was from the hall, no doubt about that. Whoever had come in was just beyond the door but who is it? he wonders, the sob sounded distinctly female.

It doesn't sound like Mademoiselle Chevrolet, the sob – despite being just that – was several pitches too high for her cigarette and brandy roughened voice, it also sounded too youthful.

Miss Thenadier? Must've been, whom else would have a key? But why would she be getting in 'this' late? And what could've happened to her?

He freezes… his blood runs cold. An intrusive memory pushes it way into his thoughts, he's seen what can happen and heard double the number of stories on top of those experiences.

He's not sure where it's come from, but once imagined it sucks the heat right out of him.

War, it's an eye opener in so many ways, but in a town overtaken by one force or the other, all it takes is one solider to be angry, dehumanised or, more than that, to just be a bastard who happens to see a pretty face and… well… Enjolras had to deal with several refugee women in Spain who'd been the victims of such crimes – he'd fortunately never had the misfortune of finding anybody under his direct command committing or having committed such an act and if he had, he'd have swiftly reported them to the authorities – but here in Paris such things are sadly, also common.

He doesn't know why such a thought has occurred to him, after all it could be anything… He's being irrational, he knows it and feels silly, but he also can't help but feel suddenly sick at the possibility.

He has to get a closer look, just to make sure. If he's wrong which he both imagines and hopes he is, then it'll be none of his concern.

As quietly as he can he creeps to the kitchen door, a part of him – not a small one either – feels bad for doing this, like he himself is doing something wrong, but his intentions are strictly honourable, if nothing obvious is amiss he'll back off. If however she's visibly injured or roughed up, he can make it appear as a chance run in, after all, he didn't come down here with the intention of seeing her…

He also awkwardly realises that perhaps he should – at some moment at least – apologise for his display earlier, it must've been unnerving to say the least. The clarity in his thoughts is nice in how it stands at odds with the vice like melancholy that held him for the entire of the day before.

He reaches the door and slowly peers around it, his fingers graze the splinters of a patch on the frame where years of motion have eroded the wood, one of his bare feet steps across the threshold onto the wooden boards of the floor, the change in temperature between it and the kitchen's flagstone is remarkable. His head slips around the edge of the door and his vision re-focuses.

The light in the hallway is different, in the kitchen the glow from the moon which hangs directly above the rear courtyard illuminates the sharper more defined features of the room, the hall by comparison is pitch black with only the vaguest outlines visible for a moment. He cranes his neck, trying to make her out through the gloom. It takes a moment, but sure enough through the dark he perceives her.

Although her exact features are disguised in the absence of light, her profile is unmistakeably the same woman he encountered earlier, the crumpled dome of her cap, the long sweeping lines of her coat and the mass of hair which frames the sides of her head, they all match. She's silhouetted, but Enjolras – in no part thanks to his training – can tell a lot from just her posture alone.

The way she's leaning back pressed against the door, her head also touching its wooden body face aloft staring into the darkness. Classic signs of emotional pain, she's upset, that's a no brainer. Yet, as he watches her head lowers and her own eye's take in her surroundings, he can't see her expression, but he hears her sigh.

His best guess is she's taking in the fact she's home, attempting to take comfort from it. She's not sobbing, not audibly anyway and neither is she breathing loudly enough to use that a judgement as to her state, as best he can tell though, she looks physically relaxed and doesn't seem to be in pain, nor from what he can tell does she look to be in disarray as he would expect had she been assaulted in any way.

He let's out a long quiet breath and backs away, hoping she doesn't see him, fortunately she's not looking in his direction but paranoia still causes his stomach to tingle and all of a sudden he feels foolish.

The sob he heard a couple of moments ago, there are hundreds of possible reasons behind it, many of them completely mundane in comparison to the alarmist ideas that first popped into his tired mind and all of them equally none of his businesses.

However, he can't help feeling something else, it's almost certainly the real reason this has bothered him at all, sympathy.

It's a simple feeling, one he's always had in abundance for nearly everyone, the lack of it in the world has always been something he's aimed to correct, but on a personal level, whatever she's going through, he can identify with how simply defeated she looks.

It's impersonal and also incredibly personal, it's silly and yet it's entirely rational and it's basic, but it's also powerful...

He slinks backwards into the kitchen and stands awkwardly facing the door, trying not to make a sound, he doesn't know why it feels inappropriate to announce his presence, but somehow for whatever reason, it does.

The wait is long and strange, neither of them, separated by the walls moves. It's feels as if morning is fast approaching by the time footsteps beyond the door become audible. In reality, it's probably only been a few minutes, but it doesn't feel that way. The sound of boots accompanied by a further emotional sniff fade towards the stairs followed by the familiar creaks as somebody makes their way up.

He sighs, this whole exercise has possibly been pointless he realises, even if he tried to help her and inquire what was wrong would she accept it and tell him?

He suddenly feels grounded once again, she's a complete stranger and one whom he hasn't had the best introduction to at that...

He nods to himself, knowing suddenly that this whole thing was foolish, sympathy aside, for the sake of propriety he should just stay out of her concerns and deal with his own before he considers meddling. They have no connection beyond their shared occupancy either, it's just the same feeling as when he encounters beggars in the street, the feeling of pity, want to help and indignation that anybody has to go through such things.

It's exactly the same with her, he knows nothing about her and she the same about him.

For a second, he lets the matter drop and prepares to return to his room.

But then... an after thought... he's wrong.

There 'is' something that loosely connects he and Mademoiselle Thenadier, their mutual friend, Marius.

There's a curiosity there and also a name that again brings about a mixed set of emotions, should he write to Marius and inform him that he's back?

What had started as a simple trip for a glass of water had suddenly become so much more complex.

All ways, he knows he'll have a lot to think about.

Should he tell Mademoiselle Chevrolet about Miss Thenadier? On one level – as he previously noted – it's none of his business, however on another, even now it doesn't feel right doing nothing when apparently someone needs help, even if that help is just a hug and someone to listen.

If something bad has befallen the young woman then she's almost certainly in a better situation to help than he.

Also of course, the sudden Marius conundrum, a part of him does want to see his old friend again while another resents him. Neither side seems capable of stifling the other…

Neither of these choices are massive in the grand scheme of things, but they hold personal gravity and right now Enjolras is well aware such a force is doubly potent to him in this exposed state.

He sighs and turns to the window, the moonlight bathing his face, at least he's now got something to worry about that doesn't involve tearing he-himself apart on some level.

That makes a change he guesses…

* * *

**I know, not the most action packed chapter ever, but this slow burn 'is' going somewhere and now the seeds of interest and associations are sewn. **

**Next time, familiar and unfamiliar faces unite to create a rather awkward situation…**

**Until then feedback appreciated and once again sorry for taking so long!**

_"_**_The success of the uprising depended on the insurgents reaching the centre of Paris as quickly as possible and seizing the town hall."_ – Is a quote from 'The June Revolution: The Course of the Paris Uprising' by Fredrick Engels, written in 1848 (the year of the Revolution which finally deposed Louis-Philippe) about the 1832 Rebellion and why it failed. His assessment was that building barricades gave the French Army time to counter attack whereas if the Rebels had marched on the Town Hall straight away and seized the command structure, the uprising might've gone entirely differently.**


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